


Morituri te Salutant

by IlliterateWriter314



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Arcane Warrior, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dark, Dissociation, Elven Glory, Genital Torture, Gladiators, Gross misuse of Latin, Hurt/Comfort, Knight-Enchanters, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slave Trade, Slavery, Tevinter slave culture, fights to the death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IlliterateWriter314/pseuds/IlliterateWriter314
Summary: The prisoner hummed. “Then I am Drynne.”“Surely not!” Solas recoiled in shock. He knew for a fact that that epitaph had been struck from this age. He had made sure of it.“You’re going to have to expand that for the rest of us non-elves here, Chuckles.” Varric seemed deeply interested in the interaction between the two, as if he was internally memorizing it for his next book.“It is a title, willing sacrifice—” Solas started to explain, hoping that if the others saw this farce for what it was that the prisoner would go back on his jest.“Is that not what I am?” Drynne cut him off, glowing hand gesturing to the Breach. “We march against the forces of the fade itself, hoping to close the Breach in the sky with a very likely chance I will die in the attempt.”A fair point, Solas granted internally.---A former Tevinter slave falls tumbling out of the fade. Fleeing persecution and violence from his once masters, he arrives with only the clothes on his back and a mantra at his lips:We are the people of Dirtha’var’en: keepers of the lost knowledge, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work and currently un-betaed; constructive criticism wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have gone through and started to edit chapters before I release the next one, adding some new scenes and altering some character's personalities and perspectives for plot reasons, I forsee a lot to be added and a lot moved, so I hope you bear with me as I work through this process. Thanks so much for bearing with me!
> 
> Edited 1/15/2019

_ A flock of birds made an agitated flight as a young elf sprinted across the branches of the aged tree branches. He cursed under his breath that he did not know this wood as well as that of Wycome, as the clan had decided to travel further west this season due to the uprisings in Starkhaven. He added further curses for the fade-damned rebels and the clan’s own nativity for good measure; he was first and their main trader, he should have known better! _

_ “I can hear him! The fuckin’ rabbit went this way!” _

_ They were gaining on him—as he intended. The slavers thought that he was leading them back to the clan, but little did they know that they were going just the opposite. Lavellan’s flight had been a gambit, one that he hoped would pay off; if all went well, he would meet the clan in Tantervale, if not, well—at least it would only be him. _

_ Burrowing flutily into the nearest trunk to catch his breath, he unhooked the bow from his shoulder. Lavellan thought briefly of his staff, he could almost feel the gnarled Ironbark in hand, thrumming with its connection to the fade—but the blasted thing would never have survived this hunt, it was still just a tad too big for him and would have caught on the branches of this young wood. “Growing room” Deshanna had said, but he knew that he would never achieve those last few inches. His face had been marked with Mythal’s  _ vallaslin _ for two years now-- he was long past the “growing” stage of their people, especially with the short rations that had been plaguing the clan. _

_ With a woodsy crash the slavers burst into the clearing, patched leather jerkins worn, but still serviceable. He would have to aim for the joints. Lavellan eyed their weapons, each was made from viciously crafted steel, and even at a distance, he could tell that they were razor sharp. The largest of the group of five had a nasty looking war hammer, he resolved to avoid that at all costs—the weapon looked to be bigger than his entire body, he couldn’t imagine it anywhere near his person. _

_ “He’s here, I swear it!” One of the men, carrying a shoddy looking bow but wicked daggers exclaimed; he must have been the tracker. _

_ The leader grunted, looking around the clearing. “Then damn well find him Sven! If we lose this one, I’ll take it out of your hide! Spread out!” _

_ The five men took places around the edges of the clearing, hoping to find him in the underbrush. The elf shook his head, humans never looked up. He nocked an arrow and took careful aim at the scout. With the man’s head in his sights, he took a deep breath, and let the arrow fly. _

_ The arrow hit the scout in the shoulder, a debilitating blow but not killing one. Fenedhis! He knew he should have paid more attention when Brianril was giving him pointers. He resolved to practice his aim every day of his life if – when he made his way out of this. _

_ Pandemonium was occurring below him, as the men scrambled to find the source of the arrow. He needed to move, now! His panicked eyes took in the trees around him, all branches either too narrow or too tall, Dread wolf take him he was trapped! _

_ “There!” No sooner had the cry been let out that a searing pain blossomed in his thigh. Looking down, it seemed the scout had paid him back in full, an arrow sprouted from his thigh, blood already began to seep out of his leg. He tried to pull it out, but the arrow was embedded into the trunk behind him. He was pinned. _

_ The men were now advancing to the trunk of the tree, growling invectives under their breath.  _

_ “Here pretty boy, going to look good on my cock you savage bitch!” _

_ “Just let us catch you, you won’t like it when we have to work for it!” _

_ He was pinned; he was going to be caught, maybe killed. But Fen’harel take him if he wasn’t going to make them work for it. _

_Deshanna’s first words to him as First of the clan echoed through his ears: “Ele Dirtha’var’en’vhen: amelanen or eolas’laim, virelanen or vir’u. Ele fel’ala or Elvhenan, i tel’sal juvaslasir: we are the people of Dirtha’var’en: keepers of the lost knowledge, walkers of the lonely path._ _We are the last of the Elvhenan, da’len, and never again shall we submit.”_

_ Lavellan tugged on his connection to the fade, weakened by his lack of staff, but his determination gave him just enough mana to create a couple of spells. _

_ “Looks like we’re going to have to cut him down boys!” the slave leader cackled.  The men were clearly enjoying this-- hollering slurs and laughing uproariously at his predicament. The man with the war hammer started to hack at the trunk, the sheer force of his strikes causing the bark to splinter. He readied his magic, fire burning in his fists. _

_ “Oho! Looks like the rabbit is making a couple of sparks!” Despite the show of magic, the men seemed only to find this more amusing. He could smell the alcohol on them, even from his perch—good: all the more to burn. _

_ He released his magic and the newly formed fireball went flying at the slavers. Their laughing was replaced by screams as the fire easily allowed their greasy jerkins to go aflame.  The man with the war hammer, however, continued his labor, never mind the fire around him. He moved with a single-minded determination, and once again the elf cursed as he readied more magic to try and make the slaves give up their hunt. _

_ Just as he was about to release the second fireball, a crack echoed through the clearing and the elf let out a cry as the arrow shifted within his thigh. The tree was going down, and him with it. _

_ As he made his descent he released the fireball alighting both the tree around him and the entire clearing itself. Fading both from the pain in his leg as well as the mana that the final attempt to end the slavers had weakened him to the point were black spots decorated his vision.  _

_ Falling rapidly to the ground, screams of the slavers ringing in his ears, he thought with an absurd peace: “Good. At least I take them with me.” _

* * *

He awoke in chains.

Never again, he had promised himself. Never again! Panic curled within his veins and he could feel breath quicken as he opened a single eye to evaluate his situation.

Four guards were drawing near, one opened their mouth, likely to raise the alarm.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Ignoring the anxiety curling in his breast, he sprung to his feet. Lavellan jumped to hit the closest guard over the head with his chains and the guard stumbled to his left, dazed, his helm making a satisfying  _ clang!  _  when the chains found purchase. Lavellan spun to take the next swiftly approaching guard’s neck in his hands, chain wrapping around to create a stranglehold.

It was the guard trying to raise the alarm he noticed belatedly-- the world around him felt oddly cloudy, and he could feel his heart pounding a hummingbird beat in his ears.  The remaining two guards continued to approach, even as the woman in his arms started to choke on the metal around her neck.

“Get back!” he yelled, hazily, he thought he should be demanding something else instead of backing into the corner of the dungeon. He could feel the woman struggle against the ill-fitting armor he had spirited away from an oblivious mercenary and he pulled the chain viciously tighter. “Stay back or she dies!”

Just as the guards hesitated, the door to his cell sprang open with a loud bang to reveal two women, once bearing an impressive scowl and the other shaded beneath a shadowed hood.

“What is the meaning of this?” The scowling one shouted. She had the look of a warrior, and the fury to match.

“Seeker, the prisoner is awake!” The guard who had reported this looked both terrified and sheepish as if they knew what they had said was obvious, but also didn’t know what else to say in the face of the woman’s wrath.

“I see that.” She turned to face Lavellan. “Prisoner! I demand you release her at once!”

“No—No! Never again! I will not—” Lavellan’s panic grew to unreached heights: prisoner? He would not be bound again! He clutched the woman closer to him, pulling her further into the corner. “I will not submit!”

They were at a standstill as the woman’s bulk effectively blocked him: if they wished to apprehend him by force, they would either have to watch him snap the woman’s neck or be forced to stab through her to effectively incapacitate him. Being small has its benefits, Lavellan thought hysterically. 

There were a tense few moments as they stared each other down. Finally, the hooded woman stepped out of the shadow created by the warrior. She evaluated the situation with cold eyes, lighting upon each of the players with a clinical gaze until she landed upon the elf, or more importantly his left hand.

Lavellan followed her look and felt himself jump in shock at the glowing gash he found there. As if noticing his stare, the wound lit up brightly in a cascade of agony. Involuntarily, the sheer throbbing echoing through his system made him lose his grip on the soldier; the woman he had just been holding hostage stumbling away from the sudden loss of pressure.

What torture was this? He turned to the women with a renewed fear in his eyes. “What did you do to me?”

He cried out as the wound flared again, causing spots to dance in his vision as he screamed with an animalistic howl of pain. His body spasmed out of his control as his nerves lit up in agony.

When he was once again aware, he found that he had fallen to his knees, and the warrior had advanced in front of him, her face a visage of incandescent rage.

Grabbing Lavellan by his burning wrist she dragged him to eye level. His pained eyes widened in fear as his feet were lifted cleanly off the ground and he hung by his still glowing arm, the warrior’s sword tip halting to rest on his belly.

“You think  _ we  _ are responsible?” Her enraged voice was accented with a northern lilt, and once again the horror rose in Lavellan’s throat as he heard a Tevinter tone but—no, the warrior was Navarran. “Everyone at the Conclave is  _ dead,  _ and you seek to blame the hands of the Divine?”

She was working herself into a true frenzy of indignation and clearly if his response did not please her, it would be his last.

“D—dead?” He couldn’t imagine it. He shied away from the warrior’s blade to try and see behind her to the hooded woman, looking for the truth in her eyes. When he found it, Lavellan’s fear turned to terror. If  _ truly  _ everyone was gone, that would mean— “Divine Justinia, is she--?”

“She is dead.” The warrior’s voice took on a note of grief but quickly turned to wrath. “And  _ you _ killed her!”

The Navarran’s blade moved to cut him down. Lavellan felt an odd pang of calm, former anxiety leaving him and replaced by serenity. If he was going to die, he would face it with honor like his ancestors before him.

“Cassandra, wait!” With a noise of disgust, Lavellan was dropped carelessly to the floor and the Navarran— Cassandra —took a step back to allow the hooded woman to advance. The descent left Lavellan prostrate on the dirty floor, and he struggled to rise at least to his feet with the chains binding him and still reeling from the green spark in his palm.

“Guards leave us.” The hooded woman ordered, her eyes never leaving Lavellan’s.

“But Leliana—” Cassandra began to exclaim in protest as the soldiers filed out of the room in relief, but she was cut off with one look from the newly named Leliana.

“What do you remember?” she barked out. Her gaze was like a knife point, daring him to refuse.

He rose to the challenge. “None of your business, shem—” his face was slapped to the side in a vicious backhand. A dagger appeared at his throat.

“You  _ will  _ tell me.” Recognizing that there was no choice in her tone, He continued as if his life were not in immediate danger, voice dull like he was reciting the Chant of Life.

“I was chased through a wasteland by demons biting at my ankles. I would have died, if a woman made of glowing light had not pulled me from that hell.”

“A woman?” At this point, it was Cassandra’s turn to be shocked. She pulled on the limp tail of his hair so that he was staring her directly in her eyes. “You will tell me!”

“Cassandra enough!” The knife was removed from his neck, though Cassandra’s grip in his hair remained, causing his Adam’s apple to bob as he tried to quell the dryness in his throat.

Leliana inspected him with a curious tilt to her eyes. “I wonder…” she trailed off as she reached one perfectly smooth hand to trail a finger across his vallaslin. Lavellan cringed away, he had learned the hard way that an unknown stroking his face had the potential to be devastating to his person.

At that moment another searing jolt of pain raced through his body, originating from his hand. Green sparks ran up his arm, causing him to cry out once again. Cassandra’s hand was suddenly gone from his hair, the woman herself stepping away to avoid the sparks.

“It does not matter now.” Leliana continued, shoving his face back as if she had touched something unpleasant. “The mark is killing you, and we do not have much time left. Will you fight?”

Lavellan heard the bored tone in her voice and could feel his lips pull back in anger. He would fight whatever in the damned void she would come up with, just to prove her wrong. “I will.” He ground out, glaring at her from under his eyelashes, daring her to refuse him.

To his further ire, Leliana’s voice, when she responded, was satisfied. “I would expect no less; may the wind rise under your wings, Kestrel.” Lavellan’s head whipped around to boggle at her in shock-- he had not heard that epitaph in ages. It was unique to his clan, their distinctive umber skin tone and dark vasellen, dedicated to Mythal more often than not, made their faces resemble the bird of prey’s feathered hood. He had not heard it since before his bondage, and the felicitation felt like a punch to his throat making melancholic tears rise to his eyes

“Come.” Cassandra pulled savagely at his shackles, forcing him from his ruminations and to his feet. “You have agreed to fight; maybe this will make a difference when are squealing at the Maker’s feet, begging for His mercy.” She said this as if were his sentence, and if whatever foe they were going to face did not deliver him to it, she would personally see it carried out.

As she dragged him to the stairway out of the dungeon, passed a still plotting spy, Lavellan thought fatalistically that, given the state of his hand, she might not have to make the effort.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're going to keep with the italics as flashbacks at the beginning of every chapter until we reach full circle hopefully around the fall of Haven. I now have a beta, so hopefully, this chapter makes more sense. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Edited: 1/15/2019
> 
> I'm going with the idea that Latin is the language of Tevinter since it is based on Ancient Rome/ the Byzantine Empire, though Drynne does not understand it yet. I included the translations for the chapter in the endnotes.

_ He was at the auction block. The journey through the sliver of Nevarran territory and then into Tevinter proper had been a turbulent one for them all, slavers and soon to be slaves both. The whole journey, Lavellan had sought escape and had tried to rally the other captives to no avail. _

_ He had grown to beguile these sorry folk. Where he had been desperate even through the pains of his wounds to find some sort of route to salvation, the huddled masses of his brothers and sisters in bondage barely raised their eyes to watch as time and again he was captured and punished. Instead of finding freedom, he found the captain’s switch-- a wicked thing that had left him dazed and stupefied for much of the journey after one, particularly foolhardy, quest to escape. _

_ He hated them for their seeming acquiescence to their new lot in life; could they not see that he was a child of the Dales, born of a lineage that had escaped these very same circumstances time and again before their miserable ancestors had discovered how to make fire?  _ He  _ should have been the hero of this story; the brave Child of the Dales who would lead them from their captors, and they would love and follow him for it, helping him back to his clan in glory. _

_ Instead, they watched with dull eyes as he tried to rally them to his cause and averted their gazes when his attempts at freeing himself led to only more pain.  _

_ And he hated them for it, but above all, he pitied them. Could they not see that he was the greatest among them-- A descendant of the Dirtha’var’en: keepers of the lost knowledge, the arcane warrior that he saw himself as? Did they not see that he was clearly their only hope of escaping these blasted shemlen? _

_ Lavellan mused to himself that he no longer looked like he could save himself, let alone a whole caravan of captured peoples. His struggles had him bruised down his chest and arms and his face was still blistered from his stand in the tree—a flaming branch had caught him across the brow and his left eye was half closed with the swelling. _

_ Not to say that the rest of his body was in particularly good shape, Levallen reflected, as he was dragged forward by the movement of the captives that were connected to him by long lines of chains. He knew that he was still shaky from the lack of rations on the march over; coupled with the constant jog as he sought to keep up with the slaver’s horses the journey, another punishment for trying to escape yet again, he had an unhealthy hollow in his collarbone with ribs that one could point out at a distance. _

_ Nevertheless, those around him were in much the same state, but that didn’t seem to deter the howling crowd of the marketplace. A mother clutching a sobbing child was pulled to the auction block. _

_ “Elf, femina est in bona valetudine, incipio decem auris!” The auctioneer yelled this with vicious glee, and though dressed somewhat shabbily in a tan robe that had seen better days, he had the eager continence of someone who knew that this fact was about to change. _

_ Lavellan felt for the mother, he missed Deshanna at that moment with an almost palpable yearning; she had been everything to him: mother, teacher, confidant—he could only hope that she was safe and alive. _

_ He was pulled from his thoughts as the crying of the woman reached a crescendo and a small body collided with his shins. It was the skinny child that had been the constant shadow of the woman on the block; Lavellan didn’t remember much of her except for her constant sniffling as her mother tried to console her in the dirty slave cart that had been their home for the last two months. _

_ She was openly sobbing now, and Lavellan didn’t like the way the market guards were reaching for their staves to silence her. “Suladin, da’len.” Endure, child. It was the best he could offer her, given the circumstances-- though he was not sure if the child understood the words, but the tone in his voice was there. He tried to shield her as best he could from the roaring crowd with his body, but when she met his eyes, her gaze turned to horror at the state of his face. Though now terrified, the girl was silent, and the guards retreated in indifference. _

_ Small mercies, Lavellan thought. _

_ “Vendidit!” the auctioneer cried out and started counting out the coinage he had received for the woman with smugness. Lavellan balked at the seemingly paltry sum, the auctioneer’s task was done in mere moments. _

_ As mother and child shared a final and tearful embrace, Lavellan was grabbed roughly and pulled to the stage. _

_ He reluctantly ascended the steps in front of him, the auctioneer staring Lavellan down from his bruised head to his bloodied feet. The auctioneer’s security turned lascivious as it traveled down his shirtless chest, and the lust in the man’s gaze felt like a phantom touch, wholly unwanted. _

_ Who did this man think he was? He was ogling the First of Clan Lavellan, a clan known throughout Ferelden for their strength! He should show some respect! _

_ When Lavellan was finally at center stage, the auctioneer turned back to the crowd. “Habimus pulcherissim, omnies!” A thunder of noise met this declaration, and though Lavellan could not understand the words, he could feel the leers of the onlookers’ clear across his hide. He glared at the crowd, sneering at the sight of so many shemlen. “Nos satus in vīgintī quīnque aurum!” _

_ A clear bidding war started, with a nasty looking woman and a bulbous man in the lead. As the battle continued, each trying to outmatch the other, the man caught Lavellan’s eye, and made a show of eyeing his form—clearly, his recent abuse was not a turn off for the man since as his eyes alit on the marks, he became visibly more aroused. _

_ Lavellan refused to cringe away from the surveillance, he would not let this shemlen intimidate him; though the man’s eyes though had progressed from undressing him and seemed to be in contemplation of what he wanted to do to him when Lavellan was at his mercy. _

_ “Vendidit!” He was sold. Lavellan tried to identify his new master, and his gut palpated as a roll of disgust overtook him against his will. It was the slimy man. _

_ “Let me see you.” The man said when he had made his way to the stage to collect his purchase, his voice heavily accented. He reached to pull Lavellan’s chin from where it had retreated in revulsion. Lavellan bit at the fingers, his only method of resistance as his hands and feet remained shackled. _

_ The man smirked. “I had rabbits like you.” Lavellan felt in his bones the magic the man was raising in the air, the draining collar around his neck made him more sensitive, and the growing power felt like it was filling his system. He shivered, glaring at the man in pure hate; the magic felt oily like the man’s face appeared, and Lavellan fought the nausea rising in his chest. _

_ “So proud.” The man’s magic took on a purple glint as it impacted onto Lavellan’s skin. He howled at the intrusion, the magic burning a purposeful design into his flesh. “So full of pride.” It reached his manacles, and Lavellan’s body convulsed when the magic turned to lightning that licked his wrists with tongues of agony. _

_ “We will change that.” The man seemed satisfied with the brand left on his neck, running his fingers down it in a twisted caress. _

_ “Praemium mei!” The man called to the market guards, and they lifted Lavellan by his still shaking arms. The man took hold of his chin to inspect his purchase, now that Lavellan was too exhausted by his labor to resist. “To you, I am Dominus.” Lavellan tried to spit at the man’s feet, but his mouth was too bone-dry from his screaming to carry out the act. _

_ Dominus laughed. A terrible sound that lingered on Lavellan like a stain. “I think we will become  _ very _ well acquainted, pet.” _

 

* * *

 

Solas was infuriated. His orb lost, the fade-damned magister too incompetent to die, and his mark— _ his _ ! – in the hands of one of the Dalish  _ children! _

Working to save the miserable elf’s life, as now he was irreplaceable in Solas’ plans, had been infuriating labor: just as he was finally able to start stabilizing the mark, the elf’s body would fail, too weak to momentarily sustain itself under the onslaught. The elf’s form was just too frail; probably from some misguided fasting to please his absent creators.

Internally, Solas scoffed. The elf’s body had been scarred, sure, but the cuts across his cheeks were too straight and even to have been made in battle. It was a shame, he thought absently, without the marks bisecting his face, the foolish infant might actually be attractive.

At least there were convenient demons to take his frustrations out on, he mused as he rent another wave of frost at the upcoming horde. Though his powers were diminished, he still was able to take on the shades with relative ease. That would soon change though if they couldn’t close this rift soon. He alone would be no match for the entire population of the fade. He felt a shred of sadness at the loss of the shade before him as it faded back into the oblivion from whence it came; innocent spirits twisted by the violence of the breach.

An arrow flying a little too close to his ear flew accompanied by the call of “Getting tired over there, elf?” A deep guffaw followed the words. Solas had almost forgotten his presence, turning around to face the dwarf.  He thought with wry amusement that this experience might almost be bearable if only he could get the archer to shut up for more than ten minutes at a time.

“Never, dwarf, you will tire long before I. Your short legs take up twice the energy!” Laughter met his words, and in a different life, Solas mused that he would have admired the stone-child for his tenacity in what must seem to be overwhelming odds.

“Laugh it up Chuckles, I’ve taken down more demons than you!” And the admiration was gone. As more demons fell out of the rift before him, Solas despaired that he was going to die with an idiot.

A pair of daggers appeared seemingly out of thin air in what would have been the chest of a man in the shade before him. As it fell, already beginning its return to the fade, Solas came face to face with the elf he had toiled over for the first time.

Solas beheld him, and in the light of day he could see the exhausted tilt to the prisoner’s shoulder, and Solas realized that scarring across the left side of his face hid a deeper wound: the eye on that side was entirely missing. The skin on that side of his face gaped over the empty socket, and his face was all the more lopsided for it.

He was forced to reevaluate his earlier misgivings: clearly, his former patient had seen battle and lots of it; if the patchwork of scars that journeyed over the slave markings of his face were anything to go by. They even traveled into the elf’s hairline, long locks dark with sweat and the ooze the demons let out as they were vanquished.

The din of battle died around him and Solas roughly grabbed the wrist of the prisoner. Time to see if his hypothesis was correct.

The elf resisted him during the whole process, probably disgusted by the touch of a flat ear, Solas thought; his former annoyance returning with a vengeance. He pulled the elf closer to his chest, so he would have less room to struggle, and he noticed distractedly that the elf was too easy to manhandle, the slight weight of the elf’s form much too light to prove any real hindrance to him.

Finally, the rift closed with a deafening snap and Solas dropped the prisoner as if burned. Expecting the elf to return easily to his feet, Solas was shocked as the elf fell onto his side with a wheeze as his ribs hit the hard stone.

“Whoa, little rough there?” Varric sounded distressed at the prisoner’s state and shot Solas a glare as he reached around to try and pull him to his feet. The elf flinched from him and Varric seemed almost more alarmed than before, stepping back to give the elf space-- but his eyes lingered on a mark that had been revealed on the elf’s neck, before being hidden by his long locks as he tried to calm his rapid breathing. “Is that what I think it is?”

The elf ignored him, struggling to his feet, and swaying with seeming weakness when he was finally upright. “I apologize, lethallin, I should not have resisted your spell.” An obsidian eye met Solas’ pale grey.  The prisoner was clearly in great pain, judging by the minute shuddering of his form, but his posture held a deep resignation that seemed to permeate his very spirit and Solas bristled to see such emotion in one of the People, misguided though he may be.

“The apology is mine, just as the credit is yours.” He tried to lighten his tone as he nodded towards the mark on the elf’s hand. “It appears you hold the key to our salvation.”

The statement was greeted with even more despair from the prisoner, his shoulders curving impossibly closer to himself as if he could shield himself from his own fate. He mumbled something under his breath, seemingly to bolster himself, turning to observe the growing breach in the sky. “So be it. If I am gifted the power to fix this, then I will see this through to the end. I swear it.”

With his face in profile, the grisly sight of the left side of his face was momentarily hidden from view, the sickly green light of the fade making his cheap mercenary gear shine like the elven armors of old. Solas beheld the sight like it was the sun in which his world revolved, and for just a second, he could see the honor of the Arcane Warriors in the tilt of the elf’s brow. He felt his breath involuntarily leave him in one great exhale. Maybe not all the People’s glory had been lost.

“Well, that was inspiring.” Leave it to the dwarf to ruin the moment. The prisoner bowed his head to the Breach and the illusion was shattered, shabby clothing and dirt strewn visage returned; reality reinstated from the comforting dream. “Varric Tethras, you may have heard of me.” At the prisoner’s blank look, the dwarf deflated, disappointed at the lack of fawning. Cassandra’s shoulders were straining behind him in repressed mirth as she ambled over to overhear the conversation.  “Come on,  _ Tale of the Champion _ ring any bells?” At the continued vacant stare, Cassandra broke down and laughed a loud guffaw, her eyes surprised as if the laugh had been pulled from her unexpectedly.  Varric groaned and continued, “Where have you been living, under a rock?”

The prisoner snorted at that, a sound that seemed rusty with disuse. “You could say that.” A spark of life had returned to his frame, amused by some dark joke known only to him. His eyes rested again on Solas. “And you are?”

Solas had the absurd feeling of his throat closing with nervousness. He was Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf for Fade’s sake! He would not be intimidated by some wandering vagrant! But under the intensity of prisoner’s gaze, he felt as if he were the young one, and the gaze of the prisoner felt like a judgment, one in which Solas felt he might struggle to meet

He swallowed. “You may call me Solas.” He tried to continue but felt the words left him as the elf turned once again to inspect their surroundings, seemingly already disinterested in Solas, like the elf had presented him a test and he already failed. Damn this elf for his effect on him!

“Solas.” The name sounded like the title it was on the elf’s breath, and for once, Solas didn’t feel the same vindication that he felt whenever the slur he had adopted was spoken aloud. It felt like a benediction.

The elf hummed. “Then I am Drynne.”

“Surely not!” The mage recoiled in shock. He knew for a fact that that epitaph had been struck from this age. He had made sure of it.

“You’re going to have to expand that for the rest of us non-elves here, Chuckles.” Varric seemed deeply interested in the interaction between the two as if he internally memorizing it for his next book.

“It is a title,  _ willing sacrifice _ —” Solas started to explain, hoping that if the others saw this farce for what it was, that the prisoner would go back on his jest.

“Is that not what I am?” Drynne cut him off, glowing hand gesturing to the Breach. “We march against the forces of the Fade itself, hoping to close the breach in the sky with a very likely chance I will die in the attempt.”

A fair point, Solas granted internally.

Drynne started to walk in that direction, not pausing to look behind himself as if he expected them to follow. Against his better judgment, Solas did and realized that Cassandra and Varric did as well, both looking as bemused as he felt.

“We must keep moving,” Cassandra ordered like she could convince the rest of them that it was her idea to advance.

“Sure Seeker,” Varric muttered as he started a light jog to keep pace. “Certain death, one hundred percent chance of demons? Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

Drynne laughed softly from the front of the group, the noise bouncing off the cliffs like drums. Green meteors fell from the tear in the sky and demons screeched a blistering song of vengeance into the air. He unsheathed his daggers and rolled his shoulders, preparing for what would surely be some hard fights. Cassandra banged on her shield both to taunt the shades and to bolster her own resolve while Varric and Solas raised their weapons in weary preparation.

“Keep them waiting indeed.” Drynne mumbled under his breath and launched his body into the onslaught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elf, femina est in bona valetudine, incipio decem auris: An elf, a female in good health, starting at 10 gold
> 
> Vendidit: He/She/It is sold
> 
> Habimus pulcherissim, omnies: We have a pretty one, everybody
> 
> Nos satus in vīgintī quīnque aurum!”: This one is starting at 25 gold
> 
> Praemium mei: To my estate
> 
> Dominus: Master


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a shorter chapter this time, but I have chapters written through chapter six so far so I'm hoping to now update this every Wednesday. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Edited 1/16/19: Marking this as a new chapter since a significant amount of detail and a new scene was added

_ Dominus brought him to a manner house in the center of the city, the outside opulent and covered in brightly colored paint. Red banners waved at streetwalkers in the wind, as if they could invite strangers to enter the gaudy building. _

_ The guards threw him into a bathing room, and he heard Dominus command the awaiting slaves, though Lavellan couldn’t for the life of him understand the meaning. Nevertheless, the slaves started to grab at his person, pulling the tattered rags from his chest. _

_ “W—Wait, what are you doing? Unhand me!” Did they not know who they were assaulting? He was a Child of the Dales! They should treat him with more respect! _

_ Nevertheless, the slaves ignored him completely and continued with their task, bathing him with a clinical efficiency that left him feeling more like dishware than person. They dressed him in a thin robe despite his struggling, the fabric so flimsy that it was almost see through. He was disappointed that the magic dampening collar remained, completely untouched by the roving hands of the bathing house slaves. _

_ Shackles still firmly around his wrists, he was brought before a matron, her aged face and simple dress incongruent with the heavy silks and tapestries around them. “Ah, a child of the Dales. Exotic.” Finally! Someone who could see his lauded descendancy. _

_ Lavellan felt his chest puff up and he tried to put on his most authoritative voice. “Clearly, Hahren, you know then who you are dealing with. If you unbind me, then surely we can escape together--” _

_ Lavellen was interrupted by the woman laughing in his face. “So you’re telling me you’re going to escape from the heart of Tevinter? It is fifteen miles to the port alone! Ha! Oh, I have not laughed like that in so long…” _

_ Her countenance abruptly returned to her former sobriety, and she spoke as if her decision to continue to speak in trade was a personal gift to him, despite his outburst. She lounged on her chaise like it was her throne, and Lavellan couldn’t help himself from bristling, mouth screwing up in a scowl.  _

_ “Oh, stop it; or your face will stay that way. Ancestors know that we have little to work with as it is.” Her eyes wandered the tattoos over his face. “Tell me, do those markings go all the way…” _

_ She trailed off and stared pointedly down his body. Lavellan almost felt like he should cover himself, though he was still, technically, completely clothed. _

_ “What do you mean?” Lavellan was entirely confused; when he imagined his bondage on the journey to Tevinter, he envisioned more dingy cells and iron whips than this airy room with its lush rugs and gilded furnishings. _

_ The woman looked at him with pity, like he was a stupid child failing to grasp a simple concept.  _

_ “I suppose we shall find out later. Flavia.” A pale flat ear girl melted out of the shadows; Lavellan hadn’t even noticed her, as unassuming as she was. _

_ She walked carefully and without a sound, her eyes downturned. Lavellan wondered how she could see where she was going if he was always watching the floor. “Yes, Mistress?” She spoke trade tenuously like the words might escape her if she spoke them with too much confidence. Even her voice was soft as if she thought that she would sink into the floor if everyone would just look away from her for a couple of minutes _

_ The matron evaluated him one last time with a disinterested huff. “Take him to the new arrival suite.” She commanded imperiously, “He will learn his purpose soon enough.” _

_ “Yes, Mistress.” She bowed her head even lower and nodded for him to follow her. She led him through a rich hallway, past rooms cordoned off by tapestries to hide the rooms behind. He could hear giggling wafting from the rooms, his bewilderment growing. _

_ “What is this place?” He finally demanded, his curiosity finally getting the better of him as they neared a not nearly as lavish, but still luxurious room. Flavia jumped at the sound of his voice. _

_ “Y-you do not know?” She looked at him incredulously, as if she could not believe that he was this dense. At the shake of his head, she continued: “Master is a businessman, he trades in pleasures of the flesh.” _

_ The revelation hit Lavellan like a cold bucket of water. “This is a brothel!?” He couldn’t believe it, he was a warrior, First of his clan! He would not debase himself like this! _

_ “If you mean we are whores…” she was visibly taken aback by his sudden anger, and she wilted as if to avoid blows. Lavellan suddenly felt terrible: he had never fancied himself a man that would make others flinch away from him. _

_ “I apologize,” he said finally. “If this is a house of passion, why am I here?” _

_ She gave him a pitying look. “Master has always liked more…” she looked at him from under her eyelashes, as if contemplating how she would state her meaning while providing the least amount of offense. “Masculine company.” _

_ Lavellan felt sick, the man who had bought him in the square? The thought of the man’s greasy palms on his skin made him want to wretch. “He would…” His voice trailed off, he could not even voice it. _

_ She only nodded, removing the manacles with a key she had pulled from a pocket in her flimsy dress. “You should rest.” Flavia finally said after they shared a heavy silence. Her hands lingered on his, trying to provide some semblance of comfort. “Dominus arrives at dusk.” _

* * *

Their small group crossed the valley with relative ease, the combined force of group more than a match for the isolated demons they encountered.

“Open the gate!” Cassandra seemed wholly over the entire affair; her mail was covered in viscous demon guts from their fighting, and she seemed unimpressed that the Breach was still in the sky, never mind the fact that they were nowhere near the site of the cataclysm.

As the wrought iron doorway opened, Drynne was assaulted by a one-sided shouting match between a middle-aged man and the hooded woman from the cell, Leliana. Making their approach, the man whirled around to point accusingly at Drynne. “Chain him, Seeker!” He ordered. If possible, Cassandra looked even more unimpressed.

“You would order me—” She began but was cut off by Leliana. That seemed to be a constant state between the two, Drynne mused, Cassandra was always rushing forward, ready to fight, but Leliana restraining her with cool logic. They must be quite a force in battle.

The argument continued around him and he studied the mark on his hand, watching it enlarge and shrink with the bellowing of the Breach. It breathed like a living thing, and he shook out his hand like he thought that if he flicked hard enough it would fall off like a patch of particularly stubborn dirt.

“—you do?” Leliana suddenly directed at him.

“What?” Drynne was confounded, wasn’t he the prisoner here? He thought they would just drag him around until the Breach closed or he died. Whichever came first, he thought rather bleakly.

“Bored already?” Varric seemed to find this whole situation humorous, and where he found that kind of humor, Drynne would never know. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Would you take the mountain path, less direct but possibly with less opposition, or the direct path, through the thick of the fighting?” Solas finally took pity on him, explaining the options to him, but holding a curiosity in his eye like Drynne’s decision would be the first measure of his character. 

He looked again to the Breach, this time managing to withhold his groan as the mark on his hand sparked in a new wave of blistering agony. The pain went all the way to his core, leaving him shaky and lightheaded. After the episode had passed he caught himself on the table they had been strategizing around, managing to hold himself up by sheer will power alone.

“We march on the Breach.” He gritted out, noticing the glint of approval in Cassandra’s eye. “I would rather face my death head-on than delay the inevitable.”

The group pulled together for one final push into the valley, and if he took a few moments to collect himself to stave off his panic with a couple of sobbing breaths over the table before taking point of their little party? Well; no one said a word.

* * *

They fought their way through the valley, rescuing scattered mages and templars alike where they could, and avenging them when they could not. The struggle against the forces of the fade felt never-ending, each brief fight against screaming demons seemed to blend together. Drynne knew that if they continued on like this, he would pass out from sheer exhaustion before they reached the Breach, nevermind the glow in his hand trying to kill him.

They finally made it to a small clearing where the forces of the living seemed to be concentrated. And for no little reason: another rift gaped open in the air, spewing shades with reckless abandon. 

Drynne could feel himself shuddering at the sight, memories of the pain he had felt at closing the last rift. It had felt like he was being stretched, his very life force being drawn out in the struggle. Was he strong enough for this?  

“You will be fine; the process will be just the same as the one from before.” Turning around to face Solas, Drynne noted the reassurance in his eyes and nodded at the other elf in thanks. Solas did not try to reach out to him again in recognition of Drynne’s earlier wariness, and Drynne tried not to be pathetically grateful for the small gesture.

“Come on! The Seeker has already started without us!” Varric exclaimed as he jumped down to the clearing. Indeed, Cassandra had already begun to dispatch the shades with brutal efficiency, a man in a lion’s helm watching her back and barking out orders to the scattered troops.

“Come,” Solas simply intoned. “We must see an end to this.”

The jumped into the thick of the action as one, though Drynne quickly lost track of the other elf as he ducked under the outstretched claws of the demon in front of him. Swaying to avoid its claws, he raised his daggers and stabbed the beast in the chest.

Undaunted at what should have been a killing blow, the demon let out an ear-shattering scream. Melting into the earth with one of Drynne’s daggers still lodged in his chest, Drynne raised his other dagger across his face in a shoddy defense. 

“Shit.” He whirled around trying to catch sight of the demon, but it had disappeared; Drynne needed that dagger back-- he needed it if he was going to be any help to the rapidly dwindling group. He tried frantically to catch sight of the demon, but it was nowhere to be found “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

With another ear-piercing screech, the demon appeared halfway across the battlefield. Catching a soldier off guard as it rose from the ground behind him, it pierced the man through the chest with its inhuman claws, the edges coming clear out of the man’s stomach.

“No!” Drynne screamed as if he could feel the man’s pain as his own. He sprinted across the field before the demon could once again disappear, grabbing the dagger embedded in the demon like a handle and hauling himself up to the beast’s eye level.

Or should-have-been eye-level, considering that the demon had no eyes to speak of. Drynne shuddered as he used his remaining dagger to cut the demon’s head clear off. Dropping to the ground and catching his second dagger expertly from the air as the shade’s body faded into nothingness, Drynne rushed to the man’s side. 

The man was clearly panicked out of his mind, half of his own entrails hanging out of his belly. Drynne swallowed past his involuntary nausea, pressing both of his hands on the gushing wound. “I need a healer!” he shouted, but he knew it would be a long time coming. He met the man’s wide anguished eyes, his rushed breathing between whimpers making the terrible situation worse. 

“Drynne! You must close it!” Solas shouted from where he was knocking a demon over the head with the butt of his staff. Drynne nodded to himself as he ripped the lower half of the stollen mercenary coat; it would not matter much; it gaped on him anyway. “Hold this!” He shouted at the man, trying to get him to understand. Drynne placed the cloth over the wound and pressed the man’s bloodied hands over it. 

He gave one last look to the man as he rose to his feet. Right. He still had a job to do. 

“Creators give me strength!” Drynne muttered to himself, raising his hand to the rift. The scar on his palm lit in glorious agony, and he could feel himself screaming over the pain in his palm, though the blood rushing in his ears kept him from hearing it. 

Though it felt like years, the rift snapped closed in what must have been minutes; the sounds of the battlefield dying out to be replaced by the groaning of the wounded and his own panting breaths. 

Drynne stumbled to return to the wounded man, his limbs shaking from exertion. Sightless eyes greeted him; the man was dead.

“Shit.” Drynne bowed his head briefly in respect, reaching out a hand to close the man’s eyes. “May the Dread Wolf take you and lead you to peace.”

“What?” Solas’ incredulous voice came from behind him, and Drynne lept at the sudden noise. 

“It is--” Drynne tried to explain as he rose to his feet, but his limbs disobeyed him in their weakness. He would have fallen had it not been for Varric’s hairy arm catching him and keeping him from landing on his face.

“Save it for later Chuckles.” Even Varric’s congenial mirth had left him, leaving only exhaustion in his voice. “Drink this, kid.” Varric said as he held a potion to Drynne’s hand. Noticing the shaking in the appendage, Varric latched his teeth around the cork and yanked it out; spitting it to one side so that he could keep supporting Drynne’s quivering form in the other hand. He helped Drynne chug the viscous liquid down, the elf shuddering as the potion started to take effect. “That’s it, easy does it.”

Solas knelt to examine the other elf. Noting waxiness of the elf’s skin and the clearly unhealthy skinniness of the elf’s fingers, Solas felt both sadness and admiration for this pitiful creature: had the situation not been so dire, he would have never allowed the elf to exert himself so-- his status as a healer making him balk at the state of the being in front of him; no one should have to suffer so much while he could help, misguided child or no. He raised his hands to the elf’s chest, already glowing with green healing energy. Solas met Varric’s eyes over Drynne’s shaking head. “He does not have much time.”

“He can hear you.” Came from Drynne, though his face was shadowed by a wall of his greasy hair. “Help me up,” he said to the dwarf, and together the got Drynne to his feet. “Solas. Help the wounded. They need it more than I will.” The implication was clear in his voice; Drynne would not survive this day. 

Solas nodded, respecting the elf’s wish. Before he could move, however, the Seeker and her blonde companion were upon him. “This is the prisoner, Drynne. The closing of the rift was his doing.”

“Is it now.” The man stood at a height that was almost twice that of Drynne’s slight frame, and he felt his breath quicken at being surrounded by virtual unknowns. The man looked dead into Drynne’s eye. “I hope they’re right about you. We lost a lot of good men trying to get you here.”

Drynne’s mind went back to the dead soldier, lowering his eyes in a moment of sadness. “I know,” he said. “And I hope I am strong enough to make it worth it.” 

The group shared a heavy silence, and Drynne struggled to use that time to rally his dwindling energy. The lion-headed man broke it. “Cassandra, advance to the breach. Leliana will try to meet you there. We will do our best to give you time.”

His eyes fell to Drynne, taking in his skinny frame and torn armor. “Maker give you strength-- for all of our sakes.”

Drynne straightened, finally standing by his own power. “And may Fen’Harel keep the Creators from your path.”

Not stopping to hear the reactions to  _ that  _ particular epitaph, Drynne raised his head high and proceeded into the Breach.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets super graphic in the "past" of the chapter, please read the tags on this fic and see the endnotes for trigger warnings
> 
> Edited 1/16/19: Translations added to endnotes

_ The wait was excruciating. As the sky grew darker and darker, heralding the arrival of the master, Lavellan thought over his options. _

_ Deshanna always said that she thought best while moving, so Lavellan rose to his feet and paced back and forth in the small room. He first checked if he could simply walk out, pushing the curtain to the hallway he stuck his head out to see if the coast was clear. _

_ Seeing no one, he tried to take a step out. Immediately the brand on his neck lit up and sent him to the floor in searing agony. Crawling back into the room, he struck that idea from the dwindling list in his head. _

_ Would have been too easy anyway, he thought; returning to pacing the room, trying to quell the anxiety curling in his chest. The way he saw it, there was only one way that this would go down.  _

_ He would wait until Dominus showed up, try and fight him off and then be immediately incapacitated by the brand, during which Dominus would take what he wanted. He kicked a loose tile in frustration, the sharp edge of the piece cutting the tip of his bare foot. He cursed, but an idea struck him. Or… _

_ “Got yourself all worked up for me pet?” Time’s up. Dominus arrived into the room dressed in a similar robe as Lavellan himself, though the robe did little to accentuate the curve of the man’s beer gut. Lavellan could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath from the other side of the room.  _

_ So that was how it was going to be. _

_ Lavellan tried to put on his most alluring smile, though he knew it would come out more like a grimace. He wasn’t looking forward to what he was about to do. “Thinking of you, master, well, I couldn’t stay still.” Was that too cheesy? Honestly, what did shems say in these situations? _

_ He reached his hands out to caress the man’s chest, but his arms were thrown away. “You only touch when I tell you, boy!” _

_ “So sorry, master.” Lavellan gritted out, and placed his hands behind his back. “I just couldn’t resist…” _

_ Dominus seemed even more aroused at his submission, so Lavellan’s terrible attempts must be working. “Is that so? Eager little savage!” Internally, Lavellan was appalled. If anyone was the savage… _

_ “So hot for you…” Lavellan crossed the short distance to fall at the man’s feet. “Just want to taste you…” Pulling at the tie of the man’s robe, he tried not to look visibly disgusted as the musk of the man fully hit his nose. Sweat and the acidic tang of blood hit his nostrils and he had to hold his breath to avoid retching.  Face to face with the man’s member, Lavellan was disgusted. Even his genitalia were utterly repulsive. _

_ Dominus was breathing heavily, having to brace himself on the alcove while his knees shook. “Yes… yes! Insatiable rabbit, I knew you were playing coy in the market!” _

_ Looking up from under his lashes, Lavellan tried to make himself appear shy as he licked a stripe up the man’s inner thigh. Dominus’ penis was fully erect, and Lavellan was absurdly pleased that his length was unimpressive. That was going to make it easier for what would come next… _

_ He kept his hands behind his back and took one of the man’s balls into his mouth. Swirling it in his mouth with his tongue, Lavellan tried to avoid tasting it. Dominus groaned, looking fully out of his head. _

_ Time to put his plan into action. Lavellan bit at the soft flesh of Dominus’ scrotum and pulled. Punctuated by the howling of the master, the flesh pulled free, pooling a viscous stream of sweat tinged blood into Drynne’s mouth. “Dimittet vos stercore!" Dominus howled, but he seemed to be struggling to raise his magic through the pain and lingering arousal. Just as Lavellan intended. _

_ Lavellan grinned as he spat the rancid flesh out, teeth bloody as he rose swiftly to his feet. Pulling the piece of loose tile from where it had skidded on the floor, he grabbed the flailing man by his penis and stuck the sharp edge of the tile to the base. “Move it and lose it.” He snarled, the master tried to grab at his neck, but Lavellan only pressed the edge closer, a cut opening under his fingers to spurt blood into the already leaking wound in the man’s groin. “You will remove this collar and let me go!” _

_ “Never, slave! Guards!” The man screamed again, and Lavellan cursed, he hadn’t accounted for reinforcements. _

_ Armored men burst into the room, taking in the scene. Dominus’ face was flaming, but he yelled. “Remove this, this,  _ cane rabidose _ from me, now!” _

_ Lavellan pushed Dominus’ bulk from him, sending the man reeling. _

_ He turned to face the guards, only weapon the little piece of tile, and felt extremely foolish in his flimsy robe, the fabric already falling off his shoulders from his earlier struggling. _

_ “Servus, convictos nocere domino: fecerit!” the one in the lead intoned. Dominus had already crawled to place himself behind them, weasel that he was. Lavellan sought the guard’s eyes under his helm but found only darkness. What kind of sorcery was this? _

_ “Tua resistentia consideretur _ .” _ The captain finally intoned as either side of their standoff seemed disinclined to make the first move, and Lavellan felt a searing pain as the guard backhanded him with the butt of his sword pommel. He had just enough time to wonder at how the guard had moved so fast when darkness filled his vision. He was unconscious before his head hit the floor. _

* * *

Dust puffed under the soles of his bare feet as he descended from the ledge. They had made their way through the scorching Temple of Sacred Ashes and Drynne swore that he could feel the screams of the twisted bodies they passed, echoing through his pointed ears.

“This is the heart of the Breach; the place you fell out.” Cassandra seemed to itch to finish their task, shifting her weight between her feet. Her piercing eagle eyes evaluated his person, gauging the tears in his armor with cool efficiency, noting the chip in one of his blades with an almost clinical stare. “Are you ready?”

Drynne tore his gaze away from the Breach, where they had been locked since they had turned the corner and the green light had been almost blinded him. He swallowed, trying to bring some much-needed moisture to his dry throat. “Let us end this.”

A hand was placed on his shoulder and Drynne tried not to jump. “You will not die here, I will not allow it.” Solas spoke as if Drynne’s continued existence was his decision. Judging by the determination in his brow, Drynne was almost inclined to believe him.

“You got a stepstool, Seeker?” Varric shielded his eyes with one hairy paw to try and get a better look through the blinding glare of the Breach. “Might be a bit of a reach.”

Drynne shook Solas’ palm from his body, moving to continue to the floor of the chasm. “I just need to close the rift at the bottom, correct?” At Solas’ almost surprised nod, he steeled himself. “Easy, won’t even have to jump.” He said this with a bravo he did not feel and instead dread pooled in his gut. He understood these rifts to be doorways, and though he could close the doors for good himself, he had a terrible feeling that there was something that could open it from the other side.

“Careful, I can feel demons ready to come through.” Solas treaded sure-footed through the black ashes of the ruined temple, his gnarled staff serving as a walking stick as he used the base to feel out a safe path for the rest of the group.

“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.” A dark voice interrupted their decent, Drynne feeling the Tevinter accent like a punch to the gut. Not magisters, he would face any number of demons if it meant that he would never have to see one of their smug faces again…

“Somebody, help me!”

“Divine Justinia!” Cassandra lit up at the tone.

“Leave her, caenum!” That was his own voice! Drynne tried to rake his memory for any recollection of this scene, finding none. Surely he would have remembered facing one of those northern bastards again!

“You were there!” Cassandra grabbed him by his shoulders, shaking him as if she could expel the truth from him by force. Drynne was speechless in the face of her urgency, panic stealing his words at the sudden touch.

“Back off, he doesn’t know!” Once again Varric came to his aid, Drynne would have to thank him later. If there was a later.

“These are visions of what caused the breach, images left by strong emotions.” Solas seemed to have disregarded the interactions between the remaining three entirely, focusing on the rift with an academic curiosity. “It is like a badly set bone; you will have break the veil open in order to set it properly.”

Finally, reaching the base of the chasm, Drynne raised his hand, looking at the howling void with the full brunt of his ruined face. “It is time for this to end.” Glancing to his sides to make sure his companions were ready, he took a deep breath, possibly his last, and tore open the veil.

A roar that shook the earth beneath Drynne’s feet made him stumble back. Lifted in wisps of green fire, a massive demon touched down to the earth with a crash, horns curling viciously behind a snarling maw.

Drynne unsheathed his blades, sprinting to catch the beast while it was still down. Grabbing one enormous spike on the creature’s spine, he hauled himself onto the demon’s back, holding on for dear life when the demon tried to shake him off. The sheer strength of the demon was monumental—if he were thrown, the impact of his body on the ground would surely incapacitate him before the battle could begin in earnest.

“What are you doing?!” Solas yelled, blasting lesser shades away from the base of the rift with frigid blasts of frost. “You’re supposed to be closing the Breach!”

“Damned impressive is what it is, Chuckles!” Varric observed the sight while one of his arrows neatly bisected a demon trying to flank the pair. Cassandra roared a war cry and jumped into the fray, not to be outdone.

With Cassandra distracting the demon from the front, Drynne was able to climb up the beast’s back. Finally rising to wrap his legs around the head of the demon like the world’s most sinister horse he steadied himself and railed his strength to deliver a devastating blow. He knew his next strike have to be monumental to breach the demon’s hide. “Keep its attention!”

He raised one of his daggers with both hands over his head and brought it down with all his meager body weight directly into the demon’s eye. Drynne could feel his eardrums burst as the demon let out a deafening shriek, blindly reaching its clawed hands to try and slap him from its head.

He could feel his grip loosening on the demon’s horns, viscous and oily shade blood making it impossible to keep holding on. He leapt from the demon’s back, twisting his body mid air so that he could shield his head as his body impacted the ground, folding into a forwards roll.

Diverted again as Cassandra continued her onslaught, the demon turned to face her, shouting it's anger at its impaired vision. Cassandra bellowed back, and Drynne couldn’t decide which was more intimidating.

“Quickly!” Solas snatched his shoulder and pushed him towards the rift. “While it is distracted. Close it!”

Drynne readied himself, a terrible calm filling his being. The din of the battle raging around him seemed to fade into the distance, and all he could hear was the beat of his racing heart in his ears.

_ Ele Dirtha’var’en’vhen, _

Shades poured out of the fade, tumbling down to earth in impossible descents, screeching terrible melodies in their wake. Each of his steps felt like a journey as if he were moving in slow motion.

_ Amelanen or eolas’laim, virelanen or vir’u. _

He saw a green demon arch its back at an angle that would have broken the spine of a mortal man, its howling causing shockwaves to arise in the very soil that brought a nearby Varric crashing onto his back. Drynne raised his arm, fingers extended as though if he stretched enough, he could touch the fade with his fingertips. The mark on his palm alit in tortuous radiance and power drained from his life force as if rushing through a narrow sieve. He screamed.

_ Ele fel’ala or Elvhenan! _

He could feel Solas desperately trying to quell the wave of demons at his back, the horde ever growing with corrupted spirits falling from the sky like rainfall. A deep cry of frustration echoed on the wind but was halted suddenly, only to be replaced by steps that hit his body like an epiphany coming ever closer to their small haven. Cassandra was down.

Drynne gripped his wrist to provide support for the onslaught coming from his hand. With a final yell, a sound more animal than man torn from his throat, he pushed all that he had at the void.

_ I tel’sal juvaslasir. _

With a deafening  _ snap! _ The torrent detached from his palm rose into the Breach. As wisps of lingering fade essence feel like shards of twinkling ice, the barrage of falling demons halted— the Breach was sealed, but not closed.

As the surge of power left him, Drynne’s chest felt like a hollow vessel, emptied of all power. His tired eyes had one chance to meet the gaze of an oddly vindicated looking Solas, before they shuttered and closed, his drained body collapsing like a ragdoll with its strings cut into the ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genital Mutilation of a character in a very non con situation. Non consensual sexual situation.
> 
> Dimittet vos stercore!: Let go you shit
> 
> cane rabidose: Rabid bitch
> 
> Servus, convictos nocere domino: fecerit!: Slave, you are convicted of trying to kill your master: yield!
> 
> Tua resistentia consideretur: Your resistance has been noted
> 
> Ele Dirtha’var’en’vhen: We are the people of Dirtha’var’en:
> 
> Amelanen or eolas’laim, virelanen or vir’u: keepers of the lost knowledge, walkers of the lonely path.
> 
> Ele fel’ala or Elvhenan: We are the last of the Elvhenan
> 
> I tel’sal juvaslasir: and never again shall we submit


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited as of 1/16/19: Translations added to end notes

_He was launched into consciousness by a punch to the gut. As more blows followed mercilessly onto his skin, he tried to cringe away from the pain but found no release in his chained suspension._

_“Faex!” Harsh voices screamed around him, but he struggled to see through the blurred vision of blood falling into his eyes. A ringing echoing through his ears made him suddenly nauseous, and he vomited, his own sick covering his chest and sliding down to fall at his suspended feet._

_The yelling continued, this time disgusted at his reaction. “Cacata carta leporem!” The words held no meaning to his tired mind, through the intent was easy to identify: these men hated him, and they were going to make their feelings known through their fists._

_“Enough!” The beating suddenly stopped. Lavellan cracked open his eyes to behold a man draped in glistening black fabric, red stole falling over his shoulders like freshly shed blood. His form was completely incongruent to the hell hole of a cell Lavellan had found himself in. The man was almost inhumanly attractive, his amber skin shone like dew in the tepid torchlight and his cheekbones appeared as if they had been crafted lovingly by an artist sculpting their masterpiece._

_“Ave Divinius!” The guard that had just moments before been punching him savagely in the face saluted one gauntlet fist to his grubby breastplate, a dull ringing echoing through the room._

_The robed man lifted one gorgeously shaped eyebrow. “Come now gentlemen, let us speak so that our… guest… can understand us. Look at him, he must feel so left out.” The man’s voice caressed its listeners like molten chocolate, each syllable seemingly savored as they were articulated by one perfectly pink tongue._

_“Y—yes Divinius.” The guard was transfixed, unable to tear his eyes from wine red lips._

_The man’s identity crashed into Lavellan’s mind like a train wreck, and he couldn’t have stopped the epiphany escaping his mouth even if he had tried. “The Black Divine!”_

_Lavellan had once heard that the Black Divine was only a black hood made of wisps of shadows, red pools of glowing light peeking out under fabric as dark as the void the only hint of sentience. The Divine was said to be the harbinger of the Archon’s will, swift in his vengeance and terrible to behold._

_The man before him now looked like he belonged more in a painting than on a battlefield, the long neck of robe falling in a graceful V to reveal faultless muscles and unspoiled skin. He smiled, and his beauty radiated like the sun. Lavellan felt the ridiculous need to avert his eyes in shame that such a creature would reveal itself to him when he was in such a torrid state._

_“Yes.” The expression of the Divine soured. “And you are a blight, an affliction that must be burned away before it can poison our society.” His lip curled into a sneer, and suddenly his splendor turned insidious. He dragged one impeccably manicured finger down Lavellan cheek, and Lavellan noticed that the Divine’s touch was oddly cool like a fresh corpse. “It is a pity, I think I would have enjoyed…” nails bit into his skin, leaving bloody welts that stung like bee stings. “…crushing your cute spirit.”_

_He whirled around, vestments arching in graceful waves, loveliness returning to his form like it had never left. “Come, gentlemen,” He glided from the cell, footsteps making no noise as the Black Divine floated from the dingy cell. “We must not keep our dear Archon waiting.”_

_With a mumbled assent, the guard pulled his manacles from where they were chained to a hook on the ceiling. Lavellan came crashing to the floor and was given no time to recover himself as the guard dragged his broken form over slimy cobblestones to follow in the wake of His Holiness._

_He was marched through halls of impossible opulence and wealth, the walls were inset with gold and positively dripped with a thousand different shades of precious stones. The passed extravagantly dressed men and women in fine clothing that were a lifetime away from the dingy robes of the marketplace in which he was sold._

_Their eyes followed the path of his filthy body, lighting up in disgust at his pointed ears and his brutal slave collar. Lavellan was abruptly self-conscious of his nakedness in the eyes of these demigods, curling around his chained fists that wrenched him unyieldingly to his destiny._

_The hallway opened to a courtyard filled with vegetation that seemed not so much like it was gown but planned, each flower positioned with artistic intent. Rows of guards outlined their path to a forbidding door winged by two slaves, their eyes cast carefully downwards and away from the approaching Divine. Men and woman dressed as extravagantly as those in the hallway from the prison sought to peer over the soldier’s shoulders seeking to catch a glimpse of the slave who mutilated his master._

_The guards folded ranks behind them, ensuring no escape and the mass of people followed in a whispering mob of scandalized voices._

_Finally, they reached the door, more of a gateway really, and Lavellan shuddered at what he would find inside._

_Now was the hour of his reckoning._

* * *

  
“So what do you think of him?”

The trio of advisors peered at the recently closed door of their meeting room and then back at Cassandra who had posed the question. There was a moment of silence as they each took a second to think on the elf that had just left the room a second previous.

“He’s hiding something.” All eyes turned to Liliana, who pushed herself up from her perch against the back wall. “Did you see his eyes? They never moved from the wall above my shoulder.” She snapped her fingers a small distance above her ear, punctuating her annoyance.

“To be fair,” Josephine chortled, “Cullen still has trouble meeting your eyes.”

“Hey!” With a boyish exclamation, Cullen huffed and blew a curl out of his eyes in mock offense. He turned somber abruptly. “But did you see the mark on his neck? That was no bruise.” He leaned back to rest his hands on the pommel of his sword as if to distance himself from the coming revelation. “That was a brand.”

“But the Dalish do brand their own, do they not?” Cassandra was dismissive, she had seen the elf fight and fight well. That was good enough for her.

Josephine dabbed a note onto her writing board. “Tattoo yes, brand no. It is a common misconception.” She narrowed her eyes at Cassandra in scrutiny. “It is a cultural practice, Cassandra, one you should be aware of if you are to work with him.”

Cullen wiped a tired hand down his face.”Now you’ve got her going, we’ll be here ‘till sunrise.”

Unperturbed, Josephine continued. “Each Dalish warrior is tattooed with the vallaslin, blood writing, a distinctive pattern that honors their gods. The fact that our Herald’s extends so far means--”

“Yes Josie, we know that you studied last night.” Liliana smiled softly at the ambassador who humphed at being cut off. "I do find it interesting, however, that a Dalish warrior would allow himself to be branded with an obviously human symbol.”

“It is odd-- the Dalish mages in Kirkwall would barely consent to wear circle robes, much less any human sigil.” Cullen rubbed at his chin. “It would have been administered unwillingly. A possible security issue in the future?”

“It is no matter right now; we can not make him tell us.” She glared at a speculative looking Liliana. “No Liliana, he will tell us or he will not. I would not have his willingness to help form the Inquisition be sullied by us prying in his personal affairs.”

There were nods all around, though Liliana looked still put out. “That is true. If nothing else, we must take his offers of help as a good sign. If that later turns to be false, well.” He rubbed at his eyes again, infinitely wearier.

“Maker help us all.”

* * *

 

Drynne folded his feet below him from his perch on the cliff looking out over Haven. He felt washed out, the last few days had been full: The Inquisition had been declared, advisors introduced and him recognized as the Herald of Andraste, to Drynne's hysterical chagrin. Drynne thought that if the Maker had finally seen this moment fit to intervene in his life then He had a pretty piss poor sense of timing.

The valley was indeed beautiful though; he pulled the stiff shemlen boots from his feet—why Cassandra insisted on them was beyond him, it wasn’t even that cold—and let his bare toes breathe in the early morning breeze. This was his favorite time of the day, it was before most in their small encampment had woken up but just after the sun rose, and in the pale-yellow light, the sunshine made the frost shine like diamonds.

He scratched under the eyepatch Cullen had embarrassedly given him, “Little more than a piece of cloth to cover it, I’m afraid.” the commander had said in that bashful way of his. It was a nice thought, through the pressure of the added garment would take some getting used to. Like many aspects of this situation, Drynne thought, he would have to adapt to their human ideas of what was acceptable.

He knew that he would have to return soon, people would start to look for him and with them would come expectations. Honestly, why he suddenly had to be their figurehead by watching over the work being done on their encampment instead of actually doing any of it was—

“Ah, so this is where ‘the Blessed Herald of Andraste’ has gotten himself off to.”

Too late. Drynne let out a sigh. Was he doomed to never have a moment of peace?

“How is this morning treating you Solas?” Drynne greeted without turning his head from the sight before him. Solas made a noncommittal sound as he bent to join Drynne on his perch.

Their knees knocked together as Solas seated himself, the small alcove not allowing the pair the luxury of personal space.

They spent a moment of amicable silence together, both gazing out to a gradually awakening town.

“In all my travels of the Fade, I have never encountered a morning so peaceful.”

Drynne hummed his assent, finally turning to evaluate his companion fully. “You are somniari? I thought that talent lost to our people.”

“Yes.” Solas confirmed simply, he watched as bleary-eyed servants leave their sleeping places first, a curl of bitter resentment forming in his gut as he noticed pointed ears more often not.  
“I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as a host of spirits clashed to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.” He paused as if the words had left him lost in memory, desperate cries of fallen warriors echoing on placid winds.

“And what did you learn?” Drynne’s question brought him jerking out of recollection.

Solas blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Drynne’s voice took on a contemplative tone and his face turned to once again gaze over the now busy camp. "What is the purpose of lingering on the past if not to learn the lessons that will help us build a better future?” The sound of the blacksmith’s hammer rang clear through the last rays of the sunrise. Drynne closed his eye to savor it as if it were the finest music. “Already we are forging the foundations in our present.”

“Then this is a basement that will surely crumble.” Solas began hotly. Drynne snorted, climbing carefully up the lip of their little perch, reaching one hand down to help Solas up the cliff face.

Pulling him up to his side with surprising strength for one so slight, Drynne cast one final look over the valley, now swarming with bodies like ants on an anthill, each person moving to complete their day to day tasks. It was beautiful.

“You’ll need these, else that ambassador of yours will surely have a stroke.” In Solas’ long fingers were Drynne’s hated boots, presented as a peace offering for his earlier chastisement, the leather crackling as he held them aloft in one pale palm.

“Leave them.” Drynne decided, “It is time I stop pretending to be something I am not.”

Solas eyed Drynne with something approaching approval in his eyes and let the footwear return to their rocky outlook. “Then let us return before you are missed.”

The began their descent back to Haven in companionable silence, boots left forgotten on the rugged step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faex: Piece of filth
> 
> Cacata carta leporem: Shitty Rabbit
> 
> Ave Divinius: Hail Divine


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is my longest chapter yet and I'm a little unsure on how it turned out. Let me know in the comments what you think! Please also mind the tags and see the end of the chapter for trigger warnings and more notes.
> 
> Edited as of 1/16/19: Translations included in the notes

_ The doors opened to reveal a circular room where the jeering faces of who Lavellan assumed were magisters, their seats ascending the walls of the dome-like room to face down on a central clearing embossed with the dragon crest of the Tevinter Imperium. _

_ Lavellan was dragged forth by the indifferent guard and chained to the center of the ground by a hook protruding from the floor as if it were the claw of the dragon itself. Clearly, he was meant to curl upon himself and cower before his betters. Fen’Harel take that, Lavellan thought, and he sneered upward to gaze upon the Archon. _

_ The man was dressed even more extravagantly than the Black Divine, his effortless robe draped over one well-muscled shoulder in a shining gold thread, so expensive that Lavellan knew that this one garment if melted down could have fed his clan for entire seasons. The shoulder left exposed was covered with a decorative pauldron that glinted in the light by inset onyx gems and embossed with delicate scrollwork. Seated a throne raised of the ground in the middle of the rowed benches of the magisterium, the Archon towered over Lavellan and evaluated his naked and abused body with a distinct haughtiness to his brow, lips quirked in a smirk that clearly stated his opinion of the elf in the hate displayed openly in his amber toned eyes.  _

_ “Dryadalis qui hic est?” He asked the Black Divine, who had ascended the dais to stand just behind the Archon’s left shoulder. At the Divine’s eager nod he continued, addressing the Magisterium. _

_ “ _ _ Iste petit deducere imperio nostram!” The Archon boomed, punctuating his statement with a crash of his staff on the marble floor. The room seemed to quake with the roars of the Magister, screaming their distaste of Lavellan in thunderous obscenities. Even though Lavellan was panicking at the sheer amount of rage directed towards him, he refused to look away, staring straight into the Archon’s eyes.  _

_ “Et nihil! Non lepus decus est nostra via contigerit deducetis vitae!” The Archon’s speech took on an impassioned tone, his authoritative voice echoing through the atrium and clearly inspiring the magisters, who once again turned to screaming their displeasure.  _

_ “Erit in exemplum!” The Archon boomed with one huge crash of the butt of his gleaming staff. The Imperial Senate, for that was what this assembly of magisters must be, bellowed its approval, and jets of spells lighted towards Lavellan’s unprotected back. Hit with a burst of raging fire one moment, then a blast of the coldest ice the next sent Lavellan careening into searing agony, his body assaulted on all sides by the very elements themselves.  _

_ He screamed. _

_ The Archon let this continue for a moment, the Black Divine laughing gleefully over the sound of crashing spells from his shoulder. The Archon raised one perfectly manicured hand, and the streams of magic stopped immediately. Lavellan was left heaving on the ground, back steaming visibly from the onslaught. He raised his eyes once more to the Archon. _

_ He would not let this break him.  _

_ From his gilded throne, the Archon laughed. “Tales spir _ _ itus!” _ _ The laugh was echoed by the surrounding _ _ magisters. Lavellan resisted the urge to curl upon himself, he would not be shamed by their mockery! He spat the blood that had pooled in his mouth at the Archon, one drop hitting his foot, a red speck that matched the gems inlaid in his boots. A hush fell over the Magisterium. _

_ The Archon rose to his feet like the sun rising in the sky-- glorious and inescapable. Stepping down from the dais with footfalls that rang out like drums in the silent room, he met Lavellan’s defiant face with a brutal stroke of his staff. Following the blow with a swift kick that sent Lavellan onto his back, he crushed the gleaming diamond skull of his staff’s foci into Lavellan’s throat. Weakened by his struggles, Lavellan could only clutch helplessly as best he could around his manacles at the length of the staff as he was methodically strangled.  _

_ “ _ _ Fragmen stercoris! Audes?” The skull pressed ever tighter. "Me, audes quidem maculant!?" The light was fading from Lavellan’ _ _ s vision, and he despaired that he would die, forgotten, on the unforgiving Senate floor. _

_ “Noli facere festinatis meus Archon. _ _ ” The pressure decreased marginally from his windpipe, and he tried to take in as much precious air as he could around the staff in short gasping breaths. Opening his eyes-- when had he closed them?-- Lavellan looked up to behold the Black Divine looking upon the episode with perverted intent. “M _ _ ittemus eum ad foveam.” _

_ Seemingly pleased by the suggestion, the Archon smirked and addressed the Magisterium  _ _ “Adit ad coliseum, ut occidi a bestia! _ _ ” He punctuated this statement with one final crash of his staff, narrowly missing his windpipe as the staff impacted a hairbreadth from his neck. The Magisterium roared its approval, a thousand voices screaming in bloodthirsty unity. _

_ Desperately trying to gulp down air, Lavellan had one second to behold the sight of the Black Divine’s handsome face twisted with vicious satisfaction before he brought the foci of his staff down in one final, brutal, decent. Lavellan could do little but watch the blow come before he knew a sharp pain, and then no more. _

* * *

“Andraste take you!”

Drynne hastily dodged the blade of a massive broadsword, the metal narrowly missing his head only to hit the ground in a spray of loose soil. Rolling over his shoulder to catch the templar by surprise, he quickly evaluated the warrior’s plate mail for weak points. 

Cursing to himself at the expanse of the strong-- if dented and grubby-- plate, and quickly fell to one knee to once again dodge the clumsy strokes of the clearly disoriented knight. 

“Stay fucking still!”

There. From his lowered vantage point, Drynne realized that the armor covered the templar’s entire body-- except his armpits. Dropping one of his daggers into the dirt, he pulled the templar forward by his outstretched arm, catching him off guard and making him stumble under the weight of his top-heavy armor. Grabbing the flailing hand of the falling man in a vicious parody of a lover’s handhold, Drynne yanked the limb over his own shoulder and stabbed the templar in the narrow space under the man’s arm.

With a grimace of disgust, Drynne expelled the now heavily bleeding man from their quasi-embrace, letting the templar fall heavily onto his back. From there, it was short work to pin the knight to the ground with a knee pressing against his jugular and then to finish him off by a short stab in the eye holes of the man’s ridiculous helmet. 

Still kneeling in order to use the cooling corpse as a meat shield if need be, Drynne turned to see how his companions were faring, the din of battle tapering off around them. Ears twitching to catch any more combatants trying to get the drop on him, he saw only Varric leaning on Bianca. Cassandra and Solas must be finishing the fight elsewhere then. 

Good. He always liked to divide and conquer.

“Well shit.” Varric appeared to be catching his breath between waves, chest hair heaving as his sternum rose with each breath. “That was damn scary, Herald. I don’t think I heard you make a sound the whole time. You some kind of assassin or something?”

Drynne smiled thinly, wiping his blades on the fallen templar’s skirt. He evaluated the blade of the dagger he had dropped and was grimly pleased to find no nicks or dents in the metal. All too often a drop like that would have weakened the metal as it hit the earth, leaving him with a weapon that would likely break at the most inopportune time, knowing his luck. Returning the daggers to their sheaths on his back as he rose to his feet, he grimaced at the blood spread across the leather of his coat. It smelled something awful. He had forgotten how much he hated the smell of fresh blood. 

“Or something.” He responded to the dwarf, seeing that the archer was still expectantly waiting for an answer.

“Come, Herald, you must meet Mother Giselle,” Cassandra stated as she approached them, eying the bodies lying around the pair with distaste. Solas followed her mere steps behind, a tactical position that would allow him to more easily find cover behind the warrior so that he would be safe to perform his spellwork. 

Catching sight of the blood covering Drynne’s chest, Cassandra opened her mouth to ask after it, but was cut off by a muted chanting growing louder in the distance.“Rebel mages! Be ready!” Ears twirling as they strained to find the location of the chanting, Solas hastily placed his staff in front of Drynne, as if he could stop him from bounding forward as was his normal strategy.

The small group fell silent, each turning to face outward so that they were less likely to be surprised. Shoulder to shoulder with Solas, Drynne could feel magic buzzing beneath the dreamer’s skin, the mana expelling from his fingers like small arches of lightning.

“We will not be imprisoned again!” In a parody of Drynne’s own rallying cry, the mages attacked in a riotous, if uncoordinated, group. Bursts of magic exhibiting all elements of nature swirled around the group, and Cassandra raised her shield above her head, protecting the huddled group from the worst of the onslaught.

Drynne smirked to himself. Mages always forgot while they were spewing spells left and right that if they were able to see their target long enough to aim and prepare their spell, then they themselves were visible long enough to be discovered by their prey.

He had learned that the hard way himself, once.

Before he could jump into the thick of the action himself, he was interrupted by Cassandra’s hoarse cry: “Solas, prepare yourself!”

Puzzled, Drynne glanced over his shoulder to look at Cassandra visibly center herself, take a deep breath, and slam her sword point first into the earth and take a knee on the ground, like she was showing respect to some invisible monarch.

A wave of blue light radiated from her weapon, gliding over the ground with graceful urgency. Unsure, Drynne stood his ground, only to fall to a knee as he felt all of the mana he kept so carefully hidden in his very core drain from his body in one terrible exhale. He clawed at his throat, nausea rising like a tidal wave, and tried not to be sick over the ground.

“The Herald is down!” Not sure who shouted the exclamation, the bile rising in Drynne’s throat burned like acid and he retched, expelling only his own mucus. Desperately reaching for magic that was not there, Drynne panicked as he could not find the one solace that had been his constant companion in years of hardship. Seeking some sort of remnants of magic within himself, he lost track of the battlefield, the voices of the fighters sounding distant as if he were hearing them from far away, despite being in the middle of the battlefield.

With a grunt, he rose to his shaky feet, only to catch sight a magister closing in on him from behind. The magister’s mouth was bared in an enraged yell-- how had he not heard them coming?

Acting on pure instinct alone, Drynne reached for the slowly returning tendrils of his magic, channeling it through his muscles and into the daggers that he could not remember unsheathing. They had followed him here! This far south! Panic and rage curled in his belly as his growing fear made thinking through a battle strategy impossible.

_ He would not be bound again! _

Daggers alit in a glorious cerulean blaze, he slashed widely at the magister, hoping desperately just to say alive even as his vision became fuzzy at the corners. By sheer chance, he whirled around and stabbed the magister through the chest; the woman dying with a scream of agony before her body even touched the ground. Blood roaring in his ears, Drynne couldn’t look away from the body, newly returned magic flirting across his skin like sparks. 

There was no magister. Just a mage; some woman from a Circle. He was dumbfounded-- had he imagined the magister entirely? The revelation was slow coming as he stood over the corpse, motionless, trying to puzzle out how there could be a magister attacking him one moment, but now a dead circle mage lying at his feet.

“Herald!” A hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and Drynne acted instinctively. Before he knew it, he was pinning the form of his would-be attacker to the ground, dagger pressed heavily to their throat. 

“Drynne!” A stubby-fingered hand rose to push against his chest. Almost without thought, Drynne pressed the dagger closer, the figure under him gagging both from the weight of Drynne’s pin and the press of the weapon.

“Dara lasa!” At the sound of elvhen, Drynne’s head snapped up, unseeing eyes frantic to find the would-be attacker. “Ma aneth.”

Slowly, Drynne let the body he had pinned under him go and rose to his feet, uncaring whether he had killed them or not. Though, judging from the loud cursing and hacking coughs, he had not done serious damage.

Drynne struggled to parse what the figure in front of him was saying over the buzzing in his ears and the blurriness of his vision. He muzzily stared at the slowly advancing figures in front of him, thoughts flitting too rapid-fire through his brain to recognize them fully. Swaying on his feet, he let his daggers drop from his lax hands. Belatedly he remembered that there he shouldn’t have done that, something about the blades? But couldn’t bring himself to care, too disconnected from his surroundings to really remember why that was the case. Slowly raising one of his palms to eye level, he watched the tremors that rocked his palm with a detached interest. This was bad, extremely bad, he knew, but the problem seemed so far away.

“--good. That’s good. Can I come closer?” 

Snapping his head up from the perusal of his own fingers, he tried to place a name to the hazy figure before him. He realized that they were an elf and that brought him comfort in his disoriented state, and though the reason escaped him, it didn’t overcome the confusion at the question. The figure was asking him? No one had ever asked him before. Normally they would simply come and take what they wanted.

“Quid est mandatum?” The words fell out of his mouth involuntarily, body falling into parade rest, as had been beaten into the very fibers of his being. He awaited orders, patient with the certainty that they would come with the same assurity that he knew the sun would rise. 

This was easy, Drynne thought-- falling back into this role. Something in the back of his head was screaming that this was  _ wrong,  _ but he hoped that it would go away. He liked when things were easy, he thought blearily, posture crumpling briefly as his focus strayed. 

“Yes, da’len, just like that.” The figure was close enough to place one calloused hand on Drynne’s stiff shoulder, and he couldn’t help but lean into it, taking refuge in the thought that he would just have to follow orders and would be okay. 

The buzzing in his ears grew in intensity, something deep inside him rebelling at the thought of being so compliant, so easy to control. He was forgetting something, he knew it in the back of his mind.

The elf was suddenly shoved to the side, only to be replaced by a yelling being gleaming from their chest piece, their words grating on Drynne’s ears. “He is a mage! He lied to us!” 

There was an eye on the yelling figure’s chest and Drynne couldn’t look away. The figure continued to rage, but Drynne felt like he was falling into the eye’s gaze, unable to tear himself away. Distantly, he saw the figure in front of him reach for something on their belt, but the eye had moved; he tilted his body to follow it, almost toppling to the ground, but was caught in hairy palms at the last second. “You okay there Gorgeous?”

The elven figure must have noticed something in the movement since his eyes landed on the yelling one and suddenly the elf was yelling too. “I will not let you chain him like some common circle mage!” 

_ Chains?!  _ He had promised himself never again--  _ he would not be chained again!  _ Dread like frost filled his stomach, radiating like ice in his veins. Fear curled around his throat, making his breath short, and he struggled to find meaning through vision dimming around the edges. 

Cognizant only of the panic growing to replace the hazy space in his mind, Drynne lashed out at the figures, clumsily, falling over his own feet as his ingrained fight or flight response made him desperate to make a stand.

“Whoa there!” A hand grabbed his jerkin, causing him to come crashing once again to the ground as his uncoordinated limbs failed to adjust to the sudden pull.

He clawed desperately at the hands that held him down, keening to escape. Pressure like steel bands slammed over his sternum and he struggled to breathe through the growing panic. “We must calm him! His body cannot take this!”

“No shit, chuckles!” Hands reached around to pull him, immobile, to a barrel chest, Drynne struggling to keep his eyes open as he became increasingly light-headed.

“Enough of this!” A sharp pain slamming across his face interrupted his hyperventilating, and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains strangulation of a character, as well as a dissociation episode leading into an intense panic attack. Please take care of yourself!
> 
> Latin:
> 
> Dryadalis qui hic est? : This is the elf?
> 
> Iste petit deducere imperio nostram! : He tries to bring down our society!
> 
> Et nihil! Non lepus decus est nostra via contigerit deducetis vitae! : And no more! No rabbit will bring down our way of life!
> 
> Erit in exemplum!: We shall make him an example!
> 
> Tales spiritus! : Such spirit!
> 
> Fragmen stercoris! Audes? : Piece of shit! You dare?
> 
> Me, audes quidem maculant!? : You dare to defile me!?
> 
> Noli facere festinatis meus Archon. : Do not hurry to make this decision, my Archon.
> 
> Mittemus eum ad foveam. : We should give him to the Pit.
> 
> Adit ad coliseum, ut occidi a bestia! : We will give him to the Colleseum, to be killed like the beast he is!
> 
> Quid est mandatum? : What are your orders?
> 
> Elvehen:
> 
> Dara lasa! : Let him go!
> 
> Ma aneth. : Look at me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is Wednesday my dudes, which means another chapter! Longest one yet, let me know what you think in the comments! Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Edited 1/17/19: Large scene change, translations included in endnotes

_ He awoke to humming. _

_ As his old hunting master had trained him what felt like a lifetime ago, he didn’t open his eyes; instead, he reached out with his other senses to try and evaluate the space around him. _

_ He was on a sandy floor, the ground littered with small rocks and other detritus. He was laying on his side like he had been thrown haphazardly into this place, wherever it was.  _

_ The humming stopped. “I know you are awake, child.” _

_ His eyes snapped open. Standing before him, behind the bars of the prison he had found himself in,  with a basket hitched over one hip, was an elven woman. Solidly middle age, her long dark brown hair streaked with grey was pulled into a sloppy bun behind long pointed ears. Giving him an indulgent smile, she laughed softly at what must have been an astonished look on his face. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, it was easy. No one sleeps so stiffly.” _

_ He would give her that. “Wh--” He had to stop, his throat killing him. It felt like he had swallowed glass; when was the last time he had drunk some water? When was the last time he ate? _

_ The woman tutted under her breath. “Come let me help you eat.” _

_ He bristled internally. Help him eat? He could feed himself! _

_ He tried to rise to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t support him. What was this weakness? _

_ “Crawl to me, child. I cannot unlock the door.” _

_ He brought himself painfully to his knees and was only able to take a couple of small shuffles on his knees before collapsed to the ground at the women’s feet, barely managing to roll onto his broken back at the last minute. Shame filled his belly at his own weakness, but he felt like he had just run for miles.  _

_ The women brushed sweaty tendrils of hair from his sweaty forehead, muttering consolingly under her breath. “What have they done to you, little Eagle?” She lifted his head and slid it to rest on one skinny thigh she had slid through the bars. In his beaten state, it felt like the softest of pillows.  _

_ “You must be thirsty, I will give you the water first.” She lifted an oddly shaped basin to his lips, and he tried to clutch greedily at the vessel, yearning more than he had ever in his life for the precious liquid. _

_ She slapped his hand away. “No! You will make yourself sick! You will drink only with my help.”  _

_ At this point, he was willing to do anything, if only to get some water. He nodded his head, too weary to try and attempt to speak again. _

_ “Good.” Cool water touched his lips and it felt like the sweetest nectar. Only allowed a slow dribble, he tried to chase the last few drops with his tongue as the bottle ran out. _

_ When all the water was gone, he coughed on his newly moistened throat, the sensation feeling new after its long absence. _

_ “Ma serannas.” He had never been more grateful in his life. _

_ “It is my pleasure, child. Do you think you can eat?” _

_ He didn’t, in fact, his belly feeling so full of the water alone, but he still took the mall loaf she offered and worried it in between his fingers. _

_ The grainy bread gave way in his fingers, revealing a parcel of herbs hidden in the center. He brought it quickly to his nostrils, his sense of smell picking up the scent of elfroot immediately.  _

_ His astonished eyes flew to the woman’s face, looking for the trick, but she was pointed looking away with a small smile on her face as if she hadn’t planted the medicine there in the first place. She made a shooing motion with her fingers, urging him to eat them. _

_ He did, and let out an audible groan, the pain of some of his worst injuries fading at the hit of musty leaves. Settling more comfortably in her lap her looked again at her smirking face. _

_ “Where are we?” _

_ The woman sighed, still letting him rest on her leg. “This is the Pit.” _

_ “We are underground?” The cell was dark, lit only by a flickering torch; but then, almost every room he had been in thus far had been dark-- for one reason or another. _

_ “In a sense,” She paused as if thinking over how best to explain their situation. “We are in what some call the Colosseum, a place where foolish magister children come to prove themselves against slaves that cannot fight back; a place slaves come to die.” _

_ They rested in silence for a long time, both of their thoughts heavy with what would come. He knew that his actions would have consequences, but he had thought, just for a second, that he might be able to escape them. What a fool he had been. _

_ “You must rest. The day ahead will not be kind.” She did not say why. They both already knew. _

_ “I do not think I can sleep, hahren.” _

_ The woman scoffed at his wordage. “Hahren. Bah. I am not some elder worthy of respect. I am your equal-- you will not have many in this world.” _

_ “Fine then, why?” This woman truly was the first speck of kindness he had found in this wretched city, and he honestly could not conceive that she would risk so much to help a random stranger. There had to be some sort of catch. _

_ Noticing the darting of his eyes, really the only movement he could make in his battered state, the woman laid a comforting hand on his head. “It is what any of Fen’Harel’s Forgotten would do for another.”  _

_ What was this woman on about? “The Betrayer? I am glad he forgot me then! I will not be tempted by him!” _

_ “Oh you sweet, misguided, child.” The woman tutted, continuing to stroke his sweaty forehead. “He was the first like us.” _

_ “What, elves?” he scoffed. _

_ Her eyes were unbearably sad. “Slaves.” She sighed and shifted into a more comfortable position, letting him rest his head against her thigh. “Let me tell you of how Fen'harel tricked Elgar'nan.”  _

_ “I will not hear this, this, heresy!” He could protest all he wanted, but the state of his body would not allow him to really remove himself from the situation. _

_ “You will believe, or you will not. It does not matter to me. But you will listen.” Her voice took on a hard edge, and he was beginning to see how she had survived so long in this place: She must have a spine of steel; hidden at first glance, but undeniably there.  _

_ “He was the first, the first like us.” Her gaze was far away, as she recounted the story that had clearly been told to her from her elders, passed down from elders before them. And now she was telling him. Her voice took on a more hymn-like cadence, syllables evening out in a resonant tone that instilled truthfulness.  _

_ “When the Creators first founded the place that would become Arlathan, they found that they needed someone to hunt the game for their banquets, to collect water for their baths, to lay the foundations of their pampered lives. And so they made him. _

_ Fen'Harel. The Wolf, they called him, for he was always at their beck and call. And for many years he served them diligently, never straying from their commands.  _

_ The Creators thought this all a great deal for them-- they lived their pampered lives, never worrying about any of their needs. And so they made more servants in their image and called them the Elvhenan, the People, because you do not give names to the help, lest they think for themselves.” _

_ “That is not how I know it!” He was outraged! The Dalish could not be wrong! _

_ “And what do you know? What did your elders tell you? Half-forgotten tales lost in old age and senility dating back generations?” _

_ Thoroughly cowed, he meekly shook his head in acquiescence; not willing to argue with one who had shown him such kindness. _

_ “Just so. As I was saying. _

_ When Fen'harel met the Elvhenan, he was confused. Was he not enough for the Creators? Had he not worked every day, from morning to dusk, to their satisfaction? He watched the Elvhenan closely at first, trying to see why the Creators kept making more. _

_ What he witnessed was violence. Abuses that he had never questioned when directed at himself filled him with rage when he saw it directed at the Elvhenan. Day in and day out he watched as the Elvhenan were slaughtered at the creator’s whims, treated as playthings, not beings that they had created with their own hands. He watched and he watched and then he thought. _

_ He thought up a way to free them. And himself.” _

_ “No… He betrayed the people. He is the reason we lost everything.” His objections sounded paltry to his own ears. Even if he didn’t totally believe the story, he was falling into the rhythm, and the words seemed to resonate somewhere deep in his chest like his very soul was finding the truth, even as his mind rejected it. _

_ She looked at him was such a weary gaze. “Maybe he was and maybe he did. But first, he gave us something to lose.” _

_ He was struck speechless by the thought. She continued, unheeded in the silence. _

_ “And so Fen'harel went to the All-Father, Elgar'nan, the one who had first created him, and said to him: _

_ ‘Master, I have found the Elvhenan whispering of power from the Fade, a power they say will make you live forever!’ _

_ The All-Father struck him. ‘What lies you tell me, Wolf! There is no such power, I would have found it already!’ _

_ But Fen'Harel was not be deterred. ‘Have I not served you well all my years, Father? Have I not given you everything I have? I have given you my mind and my body, why would I not my secrets and the secrets of the Elvhenan as well?’ _

_ Appeased but still skeptical, Elgar'nan said: ‘It is true you have been a good servant. But I will not be lied to! You will find me this secret and tell me it in the morning, or I will kill you!” _

_ Agreeing quickly, Fen'Harel thanked the All-Father for his generosity and left to tell the Elvhenan of his plans.” _

_ “The All-Father would not be so easy to trick!” He thought of how the Dalish always depicted the first Creator: unflinching and all-knowing. _

_ “Ah, but a slave had never before tried. How would he know that his oldest slave had the capability?” _

_ He did not have an answer to that. _

_ The woman huffed in satisfaction and continued. “So Fen'Harel returned the next morning, as he had promised.  _

_ ‘What is the secret? Tell me, I demand it of you!’ For Elgar'nan had had the night to think over the proposition and now was greedy for it. _

_ ‘I am sorry, my Master,’ Fen'Harel said, voice filled with apologies. ‘I was so close to getting it! But you know how greedy the Elvhenan are! If you could just give me some glass, useless pretty things that the Elvhenan love, I’m sure I will have it for you tomorrow!’ _

_ Elgar'nan was angry, but he was desperate for the secret of eternal life. ‘Fine! I will give you these things, but if you do not give me the secret tomorrow, then I will kill you!’ _

_ Fen'Harel thanked him, bowed over his knees in supplication and left, bringing the perfect glass to the People. _

_ The next day, Fen'Harel came once again to the All-Father’s feet. ‘Well? Do you have it? The secret will be mine!’ For now, Elgar'nan was becoming paranoid: what if Fen'Harel did not get the secret fast enough and the other Creators found it before him?  _

_ ‘I am sorry my master,’ Fen'Harel began, and the All-Father raised his sword to strike him down. ‘But! But. The People will tell me if I come back with some useless things for trade. Like the branches of the tree behind you. You know how the People love useless things.’ _

_ And the All-Father gave the branches of the yew tree behind him to Fen’Harel, cut by his own hands.  _

_ Fen’Harel took them and bowed even deeper in gratitude, promising to be back the next morning.” _

_ He was starting to really get into the flow of the story, the words laying into his head like missing puzzle pieces. He was desperate for more and stroking her fingers through his hair, the woman complied to his silent plea.  _

_ “The third day, Fen'Harel came not with his eyes low and back bent, but laden in furs the People had given him.  _

_ Elgar'nan scarcely noticed, too focused on what the secret may be. He had been up all night thinking about it, and he was frantic when he asked: ‘Well, what is it? What is the secret?’ _

_ For the first time, Fen’Harel met the All-Father’s eyes. ‘The secret is in halla’s feet as she runs through shaded woods. It is under the eagle’s wings as he hunts his prey.  It is in the flow of the rivers and in the leaves of the trees that reach tall into the sky. _

_ ‘What do you mean? What is it?!’  _

_ Fen’Harel smiled. ‘It is what you have denied the People and what you have denied me: it is freedom.”  _

_ For the People had taken the yew branches and woven a doorway. And the people had taken the glass and had polished it and made it a mirror. Carved with runes and imbued with the People’s hope, they crafted the first Eluvian; the gateway in which they would make their escape. _

_ Enraged, Elgar'nan tried to take out his anger on Fen'harel, but Fen'harel shifted into the form of a wolf and bit off the hand that Elgar'nan had risen to strike him with.  _

_ Fen'harel escaped to the screams of his once master, laughing all the way.” _

_ The both laughed into the darkness, the sound making the room feel less frigid if only for a moment. Wiping at tears of mirth that had formed in his eyes, he met the now somber face of the woman. _

_ “Hahren, I cannot turn into a wolf. I will not escape” _

_ “No. But you will escape in another way.” She returned her fingers to continue stroking them through his hair. “Sometimes, child, the only freedom that can be found is in your own choice: you can choose to yield to the fate in front of you, or you can fight.” _

_ “But will it make any difference?” _

_ She let out a bone-weary sigh. “Most likely not. But at least you had the freedom to make a choice.” _

_ They sat in silence for a long while. Eventually, the woman began to hum the same tune as before, stroking her fingers along the scalp of the damned before her, settling in to wait for the morning with him, to wait for the end. _

* * *

Consciousness returned to him slowly, and Drynne struggled to make sense of the world around him. Carefully keeping his breathing level, he took stock of his surroundings. He was on a bed, that much was clear, and at the edge of his hearing, he could hear the steady sounds of something passing over a blade. So he was not alone; not ideal, but a situation that he could work with.

Finally focusing inward, he took stock on the state of his body. All limbs still intact, but his head hurt something fierce…

Shit. Memories of their most recent battle crashed to the forefront of his mind and his breath hitched as some residual panic returned to him.

He had to get away. If he could just knock out whoever was with him, he could make a break for to Lake Calenhad, and from there…

“Kid, I can hear you plotting from over here. I’m going to tell you now, whatever you’re thinking, it ain’t gonna work.”

Dread Wolf take him. The sudden noise made him involuntarily jump. Trying to recover, he lept back trying to put a wall at his back. Looking for any type of weapon to defend himself, the situation resolved itself as soon as he saw who had spoken. “Varric?”

The dwarf had raised his hands in an attempt to calm Drynne’s nerves; a half whittled block of wood in one and a carving knife in the other. He was quiet but was watching Drynne get a hold of himself with serious intent. “Not gonna hurt you, you need to calm down.”

Drynne spent a couple more moments taking heaving breaths in the corner he had launched himself into, then slowly, eying Varric like one would a wild animal, he sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. 

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, Varric returning to his whittling. Drynne watched the wood shavings slowly curve away from the block. It was hypnotic almost, trying to guess what shape the block might become. 

“Kid, what happened back there?” Varric asked, his voice still soft, but the underlying tone expected an answer. 

“I thought that the woman was a magister.” Drynne replied, barely above a whisper. 

“This far south? Well, I’ve seen stranger things happen.” The block of wood was starting to take shape, the lithe body of the creature slowly arising in the side of the wood. It looked like it had fur, definitely, but that could be all manner of creatures. 

“But, there wasn’t one, was there? Just a woman.” Drynne curled a hand around his forehead, shame rising in his gut at the outburst.  Varric shook his head, still wholly focused on the carving in front of him. 

“What are you going to do now?” Came Drynne’s small voice from where he was hiding behind his hair. 

Varric blew softly on the figure to brush off some stray shavings. “Me? Nothing. But it's the Seeker you’re gonna have to worry about.” He inspected the statuette, making some minute changes around the muzzle. “Look. I get why you hid your magic, it's dangerous these days to be a mage. But our Lady Pentaghast ain’t gonna see it that way.”

“I know.” Finally, Drynne raised his eyes to look at his companion. All seemed fine, but as he lifted his eyes from Varric’s ever exposed chest-- “Gods, Varric I’m so sorry.”

Varric’s neck was a painful-looking motley of colors, punctuated by circular contusions. Drynne knew that they would perfectly match the shape of his own fingertips. 

“Shit kid, don’t worry about it. It’s-- well, it’s not okay, but--” Varric sighed and ran one hairy palm over his eyes. “Dammit, I’m crap at this. Here.” He shoved the now finished wolf figurine into Drynne’s shocked hands, who struggled not to drop it in his surprise. “You talk in your sleep. Now, I’m no elf, but I had this friend, Daisy, who told me that statues of the big bad wolf kept the danger away.” 

“I-- Thank you, Varric. Ma serannas, truly. This means more than you know.” Drynne lovingly traced the snarling maw of the wolf; it had been years since he had a talisman like this, and his heart panged at the reminder of his lost clan. 

Varric laid a comforting and on Drynne’s shoulder, and for once, the elf did not flinch. “Don’t mention it. Really, don’t. Chuckles would make fun of me forever.” 

Drynne’s one glassy eye met Varric’s with a small smile. “Wouldn’t want the ‘famed Master Tethas’ to take a blow to his ego, now would we?”

“So you have heard of me!” Varric’s eyes lit up in jest and no little relief that the serious conversation was now over. “I knew you were lying in the valley Herald!”

“No, I wasn’t but I did hear some of the scouts scheming on how they were going to corner you and get your autograph.” Drynne chuckled softly at how the dwarf immediately deflated.  

“You’re gonna read the book someday, gorgeous, and you’re gonna like it!”

Drynne’s slight chuckle turned to a full blown laugh. “Sure Varric, as soon as you stop calling me that!”

“Then I guess you’ll never read it then! Pity, it’s one of my best works if I do say so myself.” Varric grabbed one of Drynne’s hands, softly pulling him towards the mouth of the tent in which they were residing. “Come on then, let's get some food in you. You get any skinnier and you’ll disappear!” 

The odd pair laughed together, trading jokes as they left the safety of the tent; ready to face the coming storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahren: elder
> 
> Ma serannas: My thanks


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!! School and the end of my internship hit me like a brick. Pleat me know what you think of the chapter and let me know what you think!
> 
> Edited as of 1/27/19: Translations added to the end of the chapter and significant scenes changed/ added. GNU Terry Prachett.

_ Their light doze was broken by the rumbling of many approaching voices. _

_ The woman shot him one final look. “I am sorry, Aquila, my little eagle, but your final flight starts now.” _

_ Gently she helped Aquila to his feet and began to turn to take her leave, but he grabbed her fingers at the last moment. “Wait!” He was desperate to not be left alone. “What should I call you?” _

_ The woman tittered to herself. “There are no names here, child. Only titles.” _

_ The cascade of voices grew louder. He shot her one last pleading look. “Please. Anything.” _

_ Her eyes softened. She opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment, the doors burst open to yield to a wave of helmeted soldiers.  _

_ “Tacate!” One cried, grabbing the woman by the hair and throwing her to the ground. _

_ “No!” He tried to fight off the hands of his captors, but there was no escape from such overwhelming odds. Aquila’s barely sealed wounds sparked with agony, and he could feel fresh drips of blood start to fall down his back. _

_ “Leave her alone!” He called again, futility. The guards still didn’t respond to his struggles, even as he clawed and bit at the arms that held him in an iron grip. _

_ He was dragged forward up a set of rickety stairs to a heavy oaken door, though the short distance was made long through his resistance. _

_ “Now now, pet, none of that.” His head snapped up from where he was trying in vain to bite through the gauntlet of the guard holding his right hand, but it was completely ineffectual. Still, the action made him feel slightly better. He stopped immediately when he beheld the speaker, brow dropping into a glare of hatred. _

_ “Your Holiness.” _

_ The Divine smirked in recognition. Once again, the man was a vision: dressed in a robe that left one entire arm bare and exposed a delicately pierced pectoral, the Divine oozed magnificence, demanding attention from all in the room. _

_ The Divine gilded forward on gilded boots. He ran one perfectly manicured finger down his cheek. “Pet.” His voice took on a worried tone that was overflowing with dishonesty. “Did they hurt you?” _

_ The Divine nodded to the gate, and it began to open with a crawling drag along the dusty floor. As it opened, the dull roaring that He had thought was simply a headache grew in overwhelming volume. He could feel panic grow in a small ball under his heart. Where had they taken him? _

_ Noticing his wide eyes, the Divine’s smirk grew into a full-blown grin. “Bigger than you expected, hmm?” _

_ The door opened to its full breath, revealing a sandy enclosure that was surrounded on all sides by a smooth brick wall, broken only by an identical door directly opposite them. Illuminated by torches set high in the ceiling, he could make out the snarling faces of what must have been spectators to this twisted event. In the shadowed lights of the ring, the screaming mouths looked more like inhumane maws, and Aquila gulped in nervousness. _

_ “Finally accepting your fate pet?” The Divine continued to taunt him, but Aquila could not for the life of him look away. He had never seen so many people in one place. _

_ His chin was abruptly wrenched to the side. “You focus on me.” The Divine’s voice carried no small degree of anger, and Aquila bared his teeth at the stinging pain of the nails biting into his flesh. _

_ “Good.” With a small nod of satisfaction, the Divine gestured in a grand sway of his uncovered arm.  _

_ “This, pet, is the Colosseum.” He said this slowly as if Aquila was a particularly stupid child. “You will go in there, and you will face the Champion.” _

_ There was a dull clang! As the opposing door shuddered under some pressure from the other side. Vibrations shuddered under their feet; whatever was on the other side of that door was big. _

_ Once again, nails wretched Aquila’s head to the side, but he was greeted this time by a wholly unwelcome kiss.  _

_ “For luck.” The Divine only laughed when Aquila tried to bite the lips as they retracted, taking the unusually acidic smell of the man with him.  _

_ “Gentlemen.” The guards shoved him forward, and Aquila’s shaking muscles sent him flying to the dusty floor of the arena. He whirled around, trying to keep his last hope of escape in his sight. _

_ The only sight he found was that of the Devine’s gleefully laughing face, as the doors shut.  _

_ Sealing him into the Pit. _

 

* * *

The Herald was avoiding her. 

Well, not overtly, it was not like he was hiding behind trees in the vain hope that he could avoid her ire by staying out of her gaze. But Cassandra could tell-- and it only made her more enraged. He had the gall to hide his magic from her! He was an apostate-- flagrantly breaking the law in front of her!

But she could do nothing here, the Herald had made sure of it. Carefully stepping around the newly created refugee camp started by Mother Giselle, he always had half an eye on her, making sure she was never out of his direct line of sight.

Even as he haggled with the ragged trader and promised to bring back some potion for a needy elf, the eye he kept on her was always wary, as if she would cuff him any minute

In any other situation, with any other person, she might have, well, not accepted it but--

She mulled over these thoughts as she lent on a nearby tree as the elf told stories to a group of riveted children. 

“Where’s my druffalo? Is that my druffalo?

It goes--” He elbowed Varric from where the dwarf absentmindedly checking some missive or another.

“Quack!” Never let it be said the Varric Tethas did not give storytelling his all.  

“That’s not my druffalo, it’s a duck!” Drynne continued with satisfaction.

Drynne continued pointing at various creatures around the camp, alternating with Varric to do the noises. Really, a sacred figure such as the Herald of Andraste should not be telling stories to children, noises or no, but she couldn’t ruin the fun when the kids seemed to be having a good time for once in their lives. Varric and the Herald did seem to be enjoying it if she were honest, each trying to outdo each other with the different barnyard sounds. The children loved it.

Drynne continued the game and pointed at one of the few Inquisition horses. “Where’s my druffalo? Is that my druffalo? It goes--” 

One particularly precocious child interrupted him “Neigh!” they said.

Drynne bopped them on the nose. “That’s right! But that’s not my druffalo!” The children giggled.

Drynne caught sight of Cassandra and with a twinkle in his eye continued. “Is that my druffalo? It goes ‘UGGH’”. Accurate as the disgusted noise was, Cassandra felt that story time was over, and the time for Drynne’s face to meet her fist had begun.

“Yikes.” Varric said, but Drynne continued as only someone with absolutely zero self-preservation could, “That’s not my druffalo, that’s Seeker Pentaghast.”

To add insult to injury, the children ohhh’ed.

“That’s enough.” Cassandra tried to keep her voice level for the sake of the children. “The Herald is needed elsewhere.”

“Alright, you heard her.” Drynne started to shoo the children as he rose to his feet. “Time to find the druffalo yourselves.” The kids giggled and went off on their own druffalo hunt in an uncoordinated mass. 

“Seeker Pentaghast,” Drynne began as they started to make their way to the edge of the camp, like he knew that the revealing of his secret would negate his right to use her first name. And he was right: if he had referred to her so familiarly just then, she would have actually punched him, Herald or no. “I take it we are leaving for the valley?”

His eyes were somber as he said this, all levity he had from the story time gone. Good. They both know what was going to happen in the valley then.

A hairy paw reached up to grab her. “Seeker,” Varric began, hoping to draw away some of her ire. 

She would have none of it, yanking her arm out of his grasp, she marched past the Herald, who followed, steps dragging.

Varric sighed, “Well, kid, I tried.” 

Solas came to join their group, watching the Seeker march out with narrowed eyes. “You know, you did not lie to her Herald. She never asked outright if you were a mage.”

Drynne shook his head. “A lie by omission is still a lie, Solas.” He brushed past his fellow elf, missing the contemplative look Solas adopted in his wake. 

 

* * *

No sooner had they reached a clearing scant feet outside of the hearing range of the refugee scouts that Cassandra grabbed a bunch of Drynne’s stained hunter coat, pulling his face into her enraged gaze. “Talk.”

Immediately, both Solas and Varric were trying to talk her down, voices overlapping as they tried to make themselves heard.

Drynne ignored the shaking in his hands as he tried to sound undeterred by her violence. “Seeker. I didn't mean to lie to you, I will submit to any punishment you see fit.” 

The clearing was shocked into silence.

Shame and anxiety grew in his chest. Had he chosen the correct path? He would beg to continue to serve the Inquisition, he had nowhere else to go, and he needed their protection. If he was on his own-- he tried to swallow the growing his growing panic from that thought.

The hand grasping his jerkin made it hard to breathe, the fabric bunching over his airway. “Please. This is my fault only. Punish me, bound my magic if you see fit--” Though the thought made him want to vomit-- “But let me continue to fight!”

He was brought down much more gently to his feet. Cassandra was looking at him with a strange expression on her face, while Solas fumed and Varric seemed to be relieved that the altercation was in some semblance concluded. 

“You will let me bind your magic.” The question was more of a statement, Cassandra’s voice flat as she stared Drynne down.

Drynne felt his posture straighten as he rose to her challenge, but still could not quelling the shaking of his fingers. “Yes--” His voice came out more tremulous than he would have wanted. “Yes.” He repeated, more resolute.

They stared each other down, the other two companions glancing between the two as if they would have to launch themselves to separate them.

“Fine.” Cassandra finally broke the silence.

“Fine? Seeker, you almost gave the poor kid a heart attack!” Varric was quick to step between the two, now that the immediate danger had passed.

“Yes, fine! His show of good faith has led me to believe that he will not kill us in our sleep. Plus he is the Herald--”

Their continued bickering gave Solas the opportunity to corral Drynne slightly away from their almost-battleground and judging by the wink Varric sent over his shoulder as they retreated, this had been the plan.

The two of them walked a short distance away, putting the growing sounds of Varric and Cassandra’s argument behind them. Walk was a generous term, Drynne more like stumbled as he tried to contain the trembling in his legs and the shortness of his breath.

“What, face down a pride demon without flinching, and be intimidated by the Seeker?” Solas chided sarcastically as he watched Drynne struggle to bring himself to rest at the base of a tree. 

“The demon I was sure I could kill, but Cassandra--” Drynne trailed off breathlessly and Solas snorted. What was it about this elf that constantly left him wrong-footed? He started to pace, clearly perturbed. Drynne was exhausted just watching. 

Drynne idly watched the other elf mumble to himself under his breath. He couldn’t make out the words, but Solas was making large gesticulations to himself, punctuating the intelligible words. 

“What were you thinking!” Solas finally burst out. 

“I was thinking that I had nowhere else to go and having my magic bound would be a small price to pay for protection.” Huh. If he kept scowling like that, the wrinkle in his forehead might just stay that way…

Solas let out a measured breath like he was trying to physically restrain himself. “So on top of being willing to completely deny a part of yourself, you’re also a hypocrite?” Solas was working himself up, growing even more enraged as he continued: “What happened to ‘Never again shall we submit?’ It appears that you are willing to concede everything to the Inquisition!”

Who did this apostate think he was? Before he knew it, Drynne had sprung to his feet and was in Solas’ face, trying his best to stare him down while still being inches shorter than him. “And would that be so bad? We are trying to close the Rift!” He gestured violently to the green void in the sky, still pulsing with malevolent intent.

Solas would give no quarter. “Oh? Did the “Blessed Herald of Andraste” listen to much to the stories spoken of his glory? What shall you do next? Ride into battle on the back of a griffin?”

“Solas, shut up!” Drynne had heard something, a rustling in the underbrush. And where had the chirping of the birds gone?

“What, you can face no criticism? You will hide from it, like you hide from the Seeker?”

Drynne could feel it in his gut, something wasn’t right. “No! Something--”

It was then that a vice-like grip wrapped around Drynne’s ankle, and threw him hurtling to the earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aquila: Eagle
> 
> Tacate! : Shut Up!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support and sorry for the delay! The chapter contains cannon-typical violence, but no special tags for this one. I'm a little worried about how some of the scenes came out, so let me know what you think! Happy reading!
> 
> Edited 1/27/19

_Objectively, Aqulia knew that there must have been a huge cacophony of noise surrounding him since he could see the open mouths of screaming spectators. Distantly, he could see the heaving chests of slaves streaming sweat as they pounded out what must have been a truly deafening beat against drums bigger than their entire bodies._

_But Aquilia heard none of this over the beating of his heart echoing in his ears. Turning to face the writhing crowd, he stood tall, despite his nakedness. If he was going to die in this place, then he would die fighting, like Deshanna would have wanted._

_Pulling futilely at the magic-restring collar one final time to no avail, he watched the opposing door take what looked like a breath, the wood heaving as if a great force was repeatedly colliding with it._

_He heard a faraway voice call out some meaningless Teavine, and the door was finally flung wide open, revealing his opponent._

_Charging out of the gate with a bleating cry and eyes glazed over with rage was the biggest being Aquila had ever seen._

_Standing several feet above his own head, the beast was covered in thick muscles straining against grey skin that looked to be as thick as some of the druffalo hides his clan had sometimes gotten ahold of. Wickedly curved horns grew out of its snarling head, the creature’s nose huffing like an ox._

_Over the fear and roaring of the crowd, he heard only the crowd’s repeated chants: “The Champion! The Champion!”_

_Creators. He was going to die._

_But not easily, he resolved as he dodged out of the way of the now charging creature. The being ran on its hind legs like a man. Was this some race that he had not seen?_

_Aquila had no time to contemplate this as the huge appendages of the Champion tried to encircle him. Dodging with a frantic roll that caused the skin on his knees to stream bloody rivets from where the skin tore on the sandy floor, Aquila had just enough time to scream as one massive palm caught him across the midsection, launching his slight frame painfully into the wall of the arena._

_Rising arduously to his feet and trying to think over the ringing in his ears, Aquila noticed that the Champion’s face was still glazed over-- could it not see him?_

_The thought became more likely as the beast’s nose huffed and it swayed its massive head from side to side, trying to catch Aqulia’s scent as it likely couldn’t hear him over the roaring of the crowd._

_The beast’s head abruptly looked directly at him. How could it smell him? He smelled like the rest of the arena--_

_The blood. The Champion was targeting him by the blood rolling down his legs._

_Dashing quickly to avoid the Champion's next charge, Aquila thought on how to overcome his bodily response. He had no clothing to staunch the flow…_

_Looking frantically around for any solution, he realized that it was just him and the Champion in the ring, unless--_

_This was going to hurt, Aquila thought as he grabbed handfuls of the sandy floor, staunching the bleeding of his legs with the rough grains. The action brought painful tears to his eyes, even as the blood started to bubble under the makeshift bandage._

_The Champion was currently looking away from where Aquila was crouched on the ground, distracted by the drumming slaves, whose beat continued undaunted._

_The Champion, having lost its original target, seemed to only grow more enraged at this, throwing one massive shoulder into the wall of the pit._

_I think I know what happened to the door, Aquila thought hysterically._

_Before his eyes, one of the drums became unbalanced from the wall, the earthquake caused by the beast’s efforts sending the drummer tumbling to the Pit._

_The poor elf tied to scuttle away from the demon, but the Champion, able to hear the drummer’s whimpering, was focused on the slave entirely. There would be no escape._

_Turning his head away from the death screams of the elf and the resultant jubilation of the crowd, Aquila thought of his next move. The Champion was hunched over the still form of the fallen drummer, nostrils flaring over the surely still warm corpse._

_He would only have one shot at this._

_Aquila rose laboriously to his feet, the rains of sand in his shins flaring painfully. He sprinted towards the back of the Champion, grabbing onto one twisted horn._

_The Champion responded instantly, jumping back onto its feet and frantically waving its head back and forth to try and dislodge the elf._

_Aquila hung on for dear life, his injured side screaming in agony as the motion wiped him through the air._

_His free hand glanced once, twice, off the demon’s horn until he finally caught it in one sweaty palm. The beast roared, and at this scant distance, Aquila could smell its rancid breath. The pale eyes of the beast rolled in their sockets, and Aquila hauled his aching body to wrap his knees around the Champion’s neck, a twisted parody of the childhood rides he could remember Deshanna once bestosing on him._

_Freeing one hand, he stabbed his thumb into the rolling eye of the Champion, trying hard not to think about the soft give under his finger. The beast screamed its rage and the great fingers of the Champion grabbed at his legs, the claws of the beast making great furrows in his skin._

_Desperately, Aquila tried to mirror the hold that some of the hunters had showed him what felt like a lifetime ago, but the beast’s neck was like an iron cord, covered in muscles and solid beneath his grasp._

_He was not strong enough to finish this._

_A buzzing filled his ears at the realization, and panic suffocated his throat making it hard to breathe. Spots filled his vision, and his sight darkened around the edges._

_The world blurred, and the torches placed high above them swam like stars reflected in a pond. The roar of the crowd became muted, and the only sensation he could feel was the agony of his wounds. Even the bucking of Champion trying to dislodge him seemed like it was occurring in slow motion, the spittle flying out of the beast’s maw hit the side of Aquila in what seemed like an age._

_Abruptly, a burning outrage filled him. He was the First of his Clan! He would not die like a scared youngling! Resolution filled him, and he reached inside himself to the only store of power he had left: his magic._

_The world returned to normal with jarring brutality, colors appearing to become more vibrant, and Aquila swore that the temperature of his own body rose by the strength of his emotions alone._

_Mindful of the brand and collar on his neck, he focused the surge of vitality into his hands. The tingle of the energy making his hands feel curiously stretched- like the muscles had been asleep, and he was trying to use them for the first time after a long rest._

_The Champion bleated a call under him, the massive paws sliding against his blood-slick legs. Aquila reversed his grip on the horns, making his spine twist awkwardly around the Champion’s thick neck. He just needed one second--_

_Which one swift pull and a loud_ crack! _that seemed to echo across the arena, the Champion’s struggles were suddenly still._

_Aquila had a new problem: the rapidly approaching ground. Thinking absurdly back to his descent in the flaming tree all those months ago, Aquila braced for impact._

_Rolling over a shoulder to fall into a spread-eagle position on his back,  Aquila took a second to breathe, the air coming out of his mouth in staccato bursts._

_It was then that he noticed that the arena was dead silent; even the drumming slaves had ceased to beat. The air seemed to carry a violent energy, like the residue of magic his lightning spells had left hanging in the wind._

_Without warning, a single smattering of applause started somewhere in the crowd of wide-eyed spectators, growing into a crescendo of howling voices, screaming in satisfaction._

_Helpless on what to do next, Aquila raised himself to feet that shook as if they were about to fail at any second. The torches of the arena blinded him, and he raised his left arm to block out the light._

_The crowd seemed to love this, the volume rising. Encouraged, Aquila straightened the arm into an upraised fist. The sound of the roaring crowd surrounding and bolstering him, making his chest puff out slightly under his still heaving breaths._

_He would not hide; he had killed the Champion._

_He had lived._

 

* * *

 

“Drynne!”

The elf in question only had time to let out a startled yelp in response before a wickedly clawed green hand rose out of a fade rift in the ground, wrapping around his ankle and sending him flying to the ground. He tried to reach for his daggers, but the descent had knocked them out of his grasp, the metal lying useless a few feet back.

A burst of frost magic flew over his shoulder, freezing the head of the creature that had followed the too-long palm out of the earth. The screaming mouth attached to it was too elongated to be anything but a demon, and Drynne smashed it with his free foot, making the demon’s face shatter where its eyes should have been. Now free, Drynne scampered gracelessly to his feet, eying Solas. “Thank you, lethallin.”

“Do not think that this means that we are done! You must still--” Solas began, but was interrupted by the blade Drynne had launched, missing Solas’ ear by a mere breath, only to hit a shade that was creeping up on him from behind.

Solas gazed at the now dissolving demon in bare amusement. “Well. I suppose the argument may be put on hold.”

Drynne nodded as he went to retrieve his missing daggers. Now assembled, the two elves looked to the break in the veil, a hissing thing that spat angry green missiles, though mercifully not another wave of demons just yet.

Drynne shook out his sparking hand, the appendage twitching as if it had just been shocked. “So. What’s our strategy?”

Solas rested his shoulder wearily on his staff, where he had plunged the blade into the fertile earth to try and gain some respite. “With the power of our combined magic--”

“No.”

“No?” Solas recoiled in shock. “Is this about the Seeker? Herald, this journey will be unnecessarily hard if--”

Drynne raised a grim palm to stop Solas’ tirade. “No. Solas, I do not have a staff and I have avoided using my magic for years. My casting abilities are… stunted, if you will.”

A wrinkle of frustration appeared on Solas’ brow, but he nodded his head in acquiesce. “So be it. But we will speak more of this later.” He turned to evaluate the situation once more. The rift had not gotten any less viscous in the time they had been bickering. In fact, the howling of the void seemed to have grown stronger, like the next wave of demons was itching to come through.

“This will be a hard fight with only the two of us,” Solas continued, undeterred by the howling that was rising in the air. “If I could just--”

“Too late!” Drynne shouted as another screaming demon rose unnaturally from a boiling green puddle inset in what was once mealy forest floor. The green demon seemed to have been the trailblazer, and more and more demons of every shape and size spilled out of the rift like blood from an open wound.

The elves were overrun almost immediately. Fighting back to back, it seemed like when one of them would finally destroy a demon, another would take its place. Scrapes and claw marks accumulated over the two quickly, as inevitably some attacks made it past their guard.

With a heaving shout, Solas slammed the butt of his staff into the earth, sending shock waves that sent all the demons in front of him flying-- stunned but not defeated yet. “We will not win this! We must retreat!”

Drynne ducked under the arm of a groaning shade, slashing off its arm when it over-extended itself. He wiped the resultant black detritus from his face, the shade exploding as it was pulled screaming back into the rift. “Where? We are surrounded!”

It was true. Their original struggles had so far managed to contain the demon threat, but Drynne was still too far away from the rift to close it, never mind the fact that Solas would not be able to defend him on his own while he engaged the mark.

Solas’ face twisted in displeasure like their situation was of a personal affront to him. The next shade that tried to sneak up on him was dispatched with brutal efficiency by the blade of his staff. “Herald, you are too important to lose-- I will give you an opening, then you will run and find the others.”

The stunned demons were beginning to recover themselves, the elves were once again two against a legion. Drynne spared on glance on the still heaving rift and eyed Solas’ now grave face.

“I will find you later.” He said. They both knew it was a lie. Nevertheless, Drynne nodded in acquiesce, willing to obey this seemingly final command.

The demons were then upon them, the army of the fade screech and howling in their inescapable march. Drynne danced between the ranks, daggers performing deadly arches through rancid demon flesh, Solas’ blasts of frost punctuating his pirouettes as Drynne dodged between the demons’ claws. Solas began muttering to himself in elvehen, mustering power for one final assault.

Reaching to stab one green demon in its screeching maw, Drynne was halted by the whistling of an arrow that embedded itself in the demon’s eye.

Whirling around to see where it had come from, Drynne beheld Varric; clad in glorious chest hair. “Started the party without us, Herald?”

Cassandra, making a much less dramatic entry by barreling her way through the thickest section of the horde, let out a disgusted noise that was audible across the entire battlefield.

Kicking the half-blinded demon away from himself and watching it dissipate back into the breach, Drynne let himself feel a moment of relief. “Mythal’s saggy right tit, took you long enough!”

Solas let out a choked noise from where he had fallen back to catch his breath. “Language!”

"I’m not sorry!” Sprinting around demons, to the base of the rift, Drynne raised his left hand towards the breach, palm crackling with sickly green electricity.

The process was easier than at the Breach, Drynne didn’t feel the pull of the fade as deeply as he had before. The energy drain made his muscles ache as if he had just run a great distance, and his teeth felt like they were vibrating in his skull. He sheathed his other dagger and used the other hand to stabilize his shaking palm.

He pulled his eyes from the glowing rift to check on his companions, energy still draining into the rift. Varric was happily shooting and taunting Solas, much to the other elf’s clear disgruntlement,  if the way his strikes had taken on a distinctly violent edge, and Cassandra…

“Behind you!” Cassandra had just a moment to acknowledge Drynne’s call before he was pushing her out of the green fog that had formed on the ground, his connection to the rift broken.

Immediately, the ground opened, and a screeching green demon pulled itself out of the earth, catching Drynne off guard and sending him to the ground. His daggers pinned to his back, he had no other means to defend himself but for the arm, he raised in the last second.

Unnaturally long claws bit into Drynne’s flesh, and he grunted out his agony in a huff. Trying both to kick at the demon and shuffle away while clutching his heavily bleeding arm, he thought about how relieved he was to have gotten some reinforcements and scoffed at the memory.

“Maker take you!” With a bellow of sheer rage, Cassandra cleaved the demon clear in half, raising her shield to defend Drynne as he stumbled to his feet. “Are you well, Herald?”

Taking stock of the various cuts and bruises littering his body and the fact that he was unable to move his right arm, Drynne grimaced. “Well enough to finish this, I suppose.”

Cassandra nodded gravely. “Then I shall cover you. Move!” Shouting another war cry, she charged back into the fray, demons flying under the impact of her shield, conveniently leaving a clear path for Drynne in her wake.

Once again protectively circled by his companions, Drynne raised his arm to the Breach once more.

“Are you going to finish this time?” Varric asked, shooting arrows at a breakneck pace, barely pausing to reload.

Drynne gritted his teeth against the pain in his dripping arm. “That’s what she said.” Cassandra snorted.

Solas was not amused. “Focus!”

Drynne nodded, redoubling his efforts. In unison, the demons screeched as they were pulled into the closing rift; a deafening sound that left the group reeling. Slowly but surely, the rift closed with a short crackling of lightning.

Surreally, the sunlight in the clearing seemed brighter- though it had never dissipated during the battle- and birds began chirping once again. In the distance, the sound of the refugee camp could be heard through the rustling of the evergreen branches.

Varric beheld this with a cheerful smile, leaning on Bianca while watching Solas mutter healing spells over a cursing Drynne with the addition of Cassandra trying to frantically get some of the demon ichor out from where it had clearly fallen down her breastplate without notifying the others. Varric’s grin widened; she wasn’t nearly as discreet as she fancied herself.

Varric hummed, enjoying the scene before him while making a note not to include it when he wrote all of this craziness up. Couldn’t have the Herald come off as- Maker forbid- mortal or something.

All three of his companions’ heads snapped up at the sound, wearing matching looks of disgruntlement.

Varric chuckled. “Another happy battle!”

His chuckle turned into a full-blown laugh as the clearing was filled with the disgusted noises of the trio.

Better disgruntled than dead, Varric thought.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! This semester hit me like a brick and I got behind in literally everything. Please let me know what you think!

_ If there were any justice in the world, Aquilia would have been redeemed by the cheering of the writhing crowds of the Pit. Bolstered by his newfound popularity, he would have become a near celebrity, living in wealth so long as he kept providing spectacular wins in the ring. _

_ As it stood, a lone figure watched from the top of the stands as guards came pouring out of the undercroft, pulling at the heaving figure in the middle of the ring and wrenching him back down into the prison from whence he came. She watched as he resisted bitterly, though his body obviously weak from his trial, and was overcome by the overwhelming force of the Pit’s overseer, body spasming as the rune on his neck lit up. _

_ Her mouth turned down in disgust as the slave’s limp body was dragged out of the ring, the booing of the crowds falling upon uncaring ears. The guards marched on, never ceasing even as the spectators became increasingly unruly, expressing their frustration by throwing detritus.  _

_ A lucky shot nailed the overseer in the cheek and he whipped around to glare at the perpetrator.  _

_ Her mouth twitched-- served the bastard right.  _

_ She tilted her head to her companion. “Who is he?” _

_ “The elf, Lady Calpernia?” _

_ She turned her full attention to him, the abandoned body of the former champion held no fascination to her-- she had seen more than enough corpses in her day. “Yes. Where did he come from? How long has he been in the city?” _

_ Her companion’s eyes glazed over. Nearby, the cry of a bird of prey could be heard over the screaming of the crowd.  _

_ He blinked. “He is a new arrival, mistress. Though a rather infamous one a that.” _

_ The elf’s voice suddenly took on a ritualist cadence, just as his eyes flashed a sickly green light.  _

_ “He is the one who would not let chains of iron bind him, who is named Eagle, though shall never fly. He is the one who will walk through the fields of the dying and call himself sacrifice, though shall not die.  He is one who He will recognize as His equal, and hold His power in the palm of his hand. He shall see Him rise.”  _

_ Calpernia’s companion paled as the glow of his eyes left him. Clearly shaken, he rested a palm on a nearby pillar of the box in which they were residing. “I-- I’m sorry mistress. I don’t know what came over me. Forgive me.” _

_ Calpernia rested a calming hand on his still quivering arm to calm him, though internally her mind was running in circles. “No my friend, you never need to apologize. I know I ask for a lot.” _

_ “I feel that I know him.” _

_ “What? You’ve met him before? I thought that you were born here.” It was a nice way of saying that he had been borne to slavery, though now considered himself a freedman in her service. _

_ “No.” He shook his head gazing out into the field as if he could still see the triumphant figure standing unafraid in the sand. “I’m sure that I have never met him in my life. Just as I am sure that he will be our greatest ally.” _

_ He righted himself, tugging on his tunic and nodded to himself as if to steel his own fraying resolve. He met Calpernia’s eyes head on, a task he still struggled with even after years of being free.  _

_ “Or he might be our greatest foe.” _

_ Calpernia was the first to break the heavy moment that had risen between them. “Well. Whichever he turns out to be, we best know everything there is to know of him.” _

_ The male elf’s eyes sparkled, and he let out a piercing whistle.  _

_ A massive vulture landed on the elf’s outstretched arm, and he gently extended two fingers to smooth the bleached feathers of the bird’s crest. “Yes, mistress. We shall get started right away.” _

 

* * *

 

“Have I told you the story of Fen'Harel and Wishpoosh, the great beast of Lake Calenhad?”

Drynne, showing the same amount of suicidal recklessness that should be expected of a person who had just weeks previously decided to take on a hole in the sky armed only with the clothes on his back and a can-do attitude, had taken their disastrous start into stride, and had made them continue to trample on into the wilderness. As their potions had been smashed in the melee and their rations had been lost somewhere in between leaving the refugee camp and getting their ass handed to them almost immediately, the group was tired, hungry, and completely out of patience for the Herald who seemingly had unending wells of energy, despite having most of the flesh torn completely free from his left forearm.

Solas was going to kill him.

“Yes, Herald. Tell us a Dalish soliloquy.” Solas’ voice was as dry as the void from where he was leaning over Drynne’s arm to inspect the damage. It was still grotesquely mauled and bleeding sluggishly. Wonderful.

“Let me guess, Fen’harel tricks an unsuspecting elvish maiden into falling for his wiles, and so on and so on. He betrays her, she dies and the Dalish elders preach some sort of derivative moral they assigned arbitrarily after the fact?”

“Damn, chuckles.” Varric slapped a hand against Bianca’s haft from where he was using the side of the weapon as some sort of very uncomfortable pillow. Desperate measures and all that.  “Who spit in your way bread this morning?”

Varric adjusted the weapon under his shoulder, making sure that he could be ready and shooting in thirty seconds flat. He had been attacked by a wider array of creatures in this one day than he ever had with Hawke. Between the scattered templars, mages and  _ goddamn bears,  _ he wasn’t taking any chances. 

The glare that Solas sent his way could have melted glass.

“Calm down children.” Cassandra didn’t even open her eyes to reprimand them. The druffalo that they had inexplicably had to guide through demon infested caverns back to the horse farm had taken a liking to her, giving her a massive lick over her cheek when they had returned it to its pasture. The cowlick that had resulted from the overeager show affection had been legendary. After making camp, she had made haste to the river near the camp to try and get rid of the drool that kept falling into her ears.

That was, of course, when a rift opened and a demon tried to freeze the druffalo spittle right off her head. She had been forced to retreat back to the camp in only her breeches and sword like an Avaari nudist. 

In retrospect, being caught unaware literally with her pants down had been one of the most embarrassing moments of her adult life. And like the stoic and responsible seeker she was, she had decided to go to bed and pretend it never happened.

“Contrary to popular belief, Fen’Harel is not the villain in every elvehen story Solas,” Drynne continued cheerily as if he hadn’t heard the rest of Solas’ gripes. “In fact, I personally believe he is the greatest of all the old gods.”

Flattery aside, Solas didn’t give a halla’s ass what the Herald thought of him at this moment in time. The wound on Drynne’s arm was starting to gape open, and he would have to take drastic measures to make sure that he didn’t lose it.

“So happy you don’t share the stupidities of your people Herald.” Solas gritted out, trying to see how far the wound but couldn’t push up the Herald's stupidity tight Hunter’s Coat any farther. “Alright, take off your shirt.”

Drynne moved to comply, but the damn dwarf had to have a comment. “Shit, Solas. I’ve already seen one pair of blessed tits today, I think the Maker himself might smite me if I see another!”

Cassandra's disgusted groan was truly epic, considering she had turned her back from the rest of the camp and had shoved the top of her bedroll over her ears.

Drynne rolled his eyes but continued to shrug off his jerkin as Solas had asked. “If you’re all done, it really is a great story--”

“Maker’s balls, what happened to your chest!?” All teasing had left Varric’s voice, and the Dwarf sounded genuinely distressed; rising from the ground and raising a hand as if to wipe away the damage. 

Solas was inclined to agree. The other elf’s abdomen was a patchwork of scars, each looking more painful than the next. Solas let his eyes wander over the litany of discolored patches. 

Drynne’s earlier humor evaporated and he eyed the dwarf with frustration and no small amount of wariness. “They are nothing. Long since healed.”

Solas wondered under what circumstances; some of the old wounds looked like they had festered. He could see evidence of disease as well, places where the contaminated flesh had been hacked away-- and clumsy. Had Drynne done it himself?

“--in danger! How could you not tell us of this!” Oh. It seems the seeker had entered the argument and was displeased. Solas felt he should add something, but he could not tear his eyes away from the scars intermingling with the slave tattoos in front of him, trying to catalog how the had developed.

He let the raised voices wash over him, tracking the progression of the conversation in the heaving of the chest in front of him and the increasing distress that must have caused it. 

There, near Drynne’s pectoral, was a thin crag the traveled up to his sharp clavicle-- a sword perhaps? The blunt divot near his stomach must have been a spear of sorts, though it must have been blunted, or else a wound in that location would have likely have been fatal…

Solas’ eyes wandered to a ragged scar that traveled along the too prominent edge of Drynne’s rib cage. No. He had seen that type of wound before, intimately knew the pain of it from the similar markings that traveled his own back.  

That was the mark of a whip. And for it to have made its way so far from Drynne’s back… 

Bile rose in Solas’ throat, and he lifted a quivering hand to push back Drynne’s hunter coat from where it rested across his shoulders to confirm his terrible suspicion.

His wrist was caught in a grip like steel. “Leave it.”

The clearing had become quiet in the wake of the Hearld’s clear anger. Gone was the jovial storyteller from before, in his place, the hardened warrior that they had all glimpsed on the fade ridden battlefield. 

As Solas raised his eyes to meet Drynne’s face, he felt sorrow in his very bones. This was the fate of the People? To suffer and endure like Drynne clearly had? And for what? He had torn down any chance for prosperity that they might have had.

“Ir abelas.” Solas said, grief heavy in his tone.

The rage in Drynne’s single eye dimmed, and he let go of Solas’ wrist. “As am I.” 

He turned to Cassandra and Varric. “We are far from sharing battle stories. I trust you to watch my back, but I do not know you well enough to share my past. I apologize for my earlier tone, but I will tell you in my own time.” His tone was final, the undercurrent of command inherent in his voice made it clear that the subject would be brought up by Drynne himself, or not at all. 

Varric and Cassandra muttered affirmations and returned to their earlier positions, the camp silent as each pondered what had gone on. 

“Hahren,” Ah, so they were back to titles. “I would be grateful for your healing if you are willing.”

Drynne’s verbiage was overly formal, yet his voice was so, so tired; the fight seemed to have left him entirely. Solas nodded, returning to his task.

He was silent as he worked, and the night went on, lit only by the dying fire, and the green glow of Solas’ healing magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ir abelas: I am sorry


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have made major revisions to the entire work, and I suggest that you go back and reread the previous chapters if you have the time. The song in the first part of the fic is inspired by Gareth David-Lloyd in the song "The Swamp", especially the refrain, which can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIs5eo6RhKc
> 
> Otherwise, translations are included in the endnotes, and let me know how I did! Happy reading!

_ Aquila was thrown back into the cell in the belly of the Pit, his legs still streaming blood, and his arms still shaking with adrenaline. Though the descent of his body on the sandy floor had been painful, he couldn’t rally himself into moving just yet, letting his wasted body lay bonelessly.  _

_ He imagined that this was now his fate: to win against all odds, only to be forgotten in this dank cell. He thought of the swarms of people standing in the arena above him, swarming around like ants, eventually leaving to go about their lives while he would waste away in this sand. _

_ He didn’t know how long he lay there, the time marked only by the beating of his own heart; first beating quickly, but now at a worryingly sluggish pace as his mind swirled both with both light-headedness from the blood loss and the hopelessness of this life. _

_ Would he be left to rot here, forever, only to be brought out at the overseer's whims to battle for his life? What life was that? _

_ He recalled the stubborn pride that had brought him here, that of a Dalish First who refused to be debased. He thought back to that fateful day in the Wycome wood and how determined he was to lead the slavers away from his clan, from Deshanna. _

_ Deshanna! The woman who raised him there were no others. Who taught him how to take care of the halla when his tiny legs could finally support themselves on their own, who met the development of his magic with glee and put a staff in his hand. Who taught him how to cast spells, to make his own leathers, to love for his fellow clansmen as she had loved him-- unabashedly and without care for who in the world saw. _

_ He couldn’t remember her face. _

_ It was not the auction block that broke him, not the act of being evaluated and sold like cattle. It was not the pleasure house that broke him, not the act of being the seen only as the object of one’s deranged pleasures. It was not the torture at the Devine’s hand, nor the damnation of the Senate, nor even the fists of the Champion himself. _

_ It was the inability to remember his mother’s face, unable to see the curve of her brow in his mind’s eye, unable even to remember which of the Evanuris her vallaslin were dedicated to. _

_ Aquila curled upon his battered body and wept. _

* * *

_ "Gods! Aquila!” _

_ He was woken by a basket falling to the ground, jostling him from the exhausted doze he must have fallen into.  _

_ The sudden noise sent a jolt through him in involuntary fear, causing him to let out a low groan as the wounds scattered around his body made themselves known. He tried to look to who had found him, but his vision was hazy. _

_ “Don’t move, you’ll only hurt yourself more.” Like he could. If it weren’t for the aching that he could feel in his very bones, he thought that the weight of his own exhaustion would keep him pinned to the floor.  _

_ Cool fingers stroked through his fevered hair and he thought it must have been the greatest feeling he had ever felt. The blurred figure hushed him as he struggled to speak, his throat working around words that refused to be voiced. _

_ “H-Hahren?” Aquila finally pushed out. Even forcing out the single word felt like a herculean task. “I won.” _

_ The woman continued to hum and uttered meaningless phrases under her breath, trying to calm him in the only way she could. “You did.” She said this like it was of no import like it was something that happened to someone else, far away. _

_ Aquila could only contemplate what could happen next. All he could image was fight after bloody fight. “What happens now?” _

_ The woman abruptly stopped humming. “You endure.” There was no comfort in her voice, only sheer resolve. _

_ “And if I can’t?” _

_ “You will.” The woman was resolute. “You will endure. There is nothing else for us.” _

_ She returned to brushing his sweat soaked hair. Though now she sang a song with a hymn-like resonance. “Din’las... Rosa...” _

_ The melody was simple, the woman alternating keys effortlessly, repeating the words endlessly. Her voice was strong, and her singing confident as if she had repeated this refrain hundreds of times before and would continue to sing it hundreds of times in the future. _

_ Eventually, when he could feel the beat of the refrain in his very bones, he opened his cracked lips and joined her. “Din’las... Rosa...”  _

_ They sat like that for hours, singing the same hymn into the early hours of the morning. The halls echoed with their voices, first the steady anchor of the woman’s tenor, and breathlessly at first, but growing ever stronger Aquila’s own baritone in response.  _

_ For the first time, the dungeons of the Pit rang with a song other than the howling of criminals and the final gasps of dying slaves. For the first time, the dingy halls rang with the song of the People-- they rang with the song of a People unwilling to let themselves be broken by their oppressors. For the first time, the halls of the Pit rang with a song of defiance-- a heartfelt call to survive. _

* * *

“So you were right about him,” Josephine remarked to Liliana, though his tone was far from pleased. She made a mark on her board, shaking her head at the missive before them. "He was hiding something."

It was no small understatement. A raven had come post-haste from the Hinterlands, reporting the behavior of the Herald in action. They had all concluded after their last meeting that while they wished to respect the Herald’s privacy, he was a completely unknown variable in the complex equation of the Inquisition. One that they would have to carefully work with or, in the worst case, mitigate, to avoid failing utterly. Thus, the expedition to the Hinterlands was a sort of trial, one that Cassandra would watch and take note of how the Herald adapted.

In the worst case, they had suspected that the Herald might be a flight risk, though he had said that he would help the Inquisition-- and who wouldn’t be when so much responsibility had been thrust upon them in such a short amount of time? Cassandra’s report, however, outlined a situation even more dire: the revelation of the Herald secretly hiding a talent for magic that could and did kill a man, and the worrying notification that he had exhibited one of the most violent episodes of battle fatigue that Cassandra had ever witnessed. And the Seeker had served through the Blight!

“Maker’s breath. It’s worse than we could have thought. An uncontrolled mage? We could have an abomination on our hands!”  Cullen sat at the council table with his head in his hands. He thought he had left this kind of nonsense back in Kirkwall.

Josephine was already thinking over logistics. “He will need training then. But we do not have the resources nor an instructor unless we were t side with the rebel mages…”

“At this rate, should side with the templars to keep the Herald in check!” Cullen would not yield, especially on this matter.

“Read the rest of the report,” Liliana commanded impatiently. The other two had read the part about the magic and had immediately started looking for contingencies. 

Cullen snatched the paper from where Liliana was waving it about his face between two fingers. Josephine lent to read the parchment over his shoulder, she was too impatient to wait for Cullen to parse through Cassandra’s blocky handwriting. “‘... The Herald offered to allow me to bind his magic, but I thought it best he be allowed to use all available resources against the fade.’ What? A Dalish elf allowing themselves to be bound in such a way? This makes no sense!”

“Indeed.” Liliana's voice was highly contemplative. “Continue.”

“‘It was later uncovered when Solas was endeavoring to clean the Herald’s wounds that his chest is horrendously scarred. Many of these scars appeared to be from wounds that would have killed another elf…’ Well, he is missing an eye, I don’t really know what we were expecting.”

“Look beyond your initial reaction, Cullen. Think! Templars rarely inflict so much damage when trying to apprehend apostates, and the Dalish clans haven’t participated in a large enough conflict to have caused the amount of warfare necessary to produce such wounds. So where did they come from?”

They both looked to Liliana, waiting for the Spymaster to put together the dots. Liliana rubbed her chin. “I have had some of my agents look into the mark on the Herald’s neck. It was not a symbol most recognized, but it has been confirmed to have been Tevene in origin. “

“Why in the Fade would a Dalish elf have a Tevinter brand on his neck!? It makes no sense!” Cullen was terrible at the finicky details of reconnaissance on a good day. At this point, Cullen was in the camp that they should just ask the Herald, and the Maker take all this secrecy.

Josephine, on the other hand, was having the time of her life. This was like a new chapter of Swords and Shields, but juicer. And real. “That, we do not know. Yet.” She jotted a note on her board. “But it is interesting, given the current upheaval in Tevinter.”

“And?” Cullen asked impatiently. “Shouldn’t Tevinter be stable given the whole Empire thing? Besides, I thought they were too busy with the Qunari to be concerned about anything other than Seheron.

“The Divine is dead,” Liliana said bluntly. Cullen gave her a look that said she was phenomenally stupid. “The Black Divine.” She clarified irritably.

Josephine pointed her quill in admonishment at both the other councilors. “And that is not to say our Herald had anything to do with it! But he will definitely have to answer some questions when he returns from the Hinterlands! What’s their ETA? This week?”

Liliana shook her head. “No. They will be much later than that.”

Cullen perked up his head. “Is someone hurt? What’s the delay?”

“There’s no delay, they’re already in Val Royeaux, at the urging of Mother Giselle.” Liliana took a brief moment to be satisfied in the flabbergasted faces of the other two councilors. One had to take satisfaction where one could in this line of profession, after all.

“Shit.” Cullen summed up their mood quite succinctly. This was going to be a disaster.

* * *

“And… You’re an elf. Particularly elfy lookin’ one too.”

Their adventures in the Hinterlands had led them through battlefields thick with fighting between templars and rebel mages, through destroyed homesteads and green woods that made Drynne yearn for the aged trees of his home. They had tread through burning fields in the Hinterlands to the opulence of Val Royeaux, past Chantry Mothers, Horsemasters and everything in between.

All to be disrespected by an archer with a bad haircut. 

Varric laughed. “You hear that your Holiness?” he was having trouble containing his mirth. “Buttercup over here is not impressed!” 

Drynne looked down to evaluate his current gear-- daggers strapped to where he left them at his hips, hold out knife strapped to his chest; he supposed that the coat that covered his armor and swept to touch the ground by his bare feet  _ was  _ Dalish influenced, but the galarus that covered his right shoulder and pectoral was of his own design. He shrugged.

At his visible confusion, the girl deflated. Seeming to remember where she was going with her earlier tirade, she perked up again with manic glee. “Right, there’s cover, get behind it. They got no breaches!”

With that cryptic statement, as well as a disgusted grunt from Cassandra as she raised her shield, what followed was one of the most absurd fights Drynne had ever participated in. The men they were fighting were missing their pants and clearly embarrassed about it, making them easy to take out. Drynne marveled at this as he cut the last one down, he had long since grown out of his body modesty, even while he was still with his clan-- was this a human thing?

Drawn back by the girl's --how old was she really, like fifteen?-- cackling, he was greeted by the sight of Solas disgustedly wiping what looked like mud from his face to the delight of the girl who had clearly placed it there, Drynne smiled. She must have caught him while he was unaware, maybe while he was finishing off his opponent, and slapped him with a handful of dirt. 

What Solas’ face must have looked like! Drynne could see it now, that little crevice between his eyebrows that formed when he was deep in concentration blown wide in surprise as he fell victim to the prank. Drynne, couldn’t help it. He laughed.

The noise echoed around the garden, and everyone in their little party turned to it. Now that he started, Drynne couldn’t stop. “Solas--” he said as he gasped for breath, “Your face!” 

Solas merely sighed as the rest of the companions joined Drynne in his mirth, not even bothering to try and wipe off his face anymore. “Are you all quite done now?”

“You know, Harald, I think that is the first time I have heard you laugh,” Cassandra remarked. The atmosphere abruptly sobered.

“It is the first time I have done so in a long time, I think,” Drynne responded contemplatively, thoughts far away. For a second, his scarred face had almost been beautiful, mouth upturned in mirth. “Right then,” he said, snapping out of it. “You want to join the Inquisition?”

Sera giggled at the directness of his tone. “Got to get down to the little people, yeah? Figured I’d join before you got to full of yourself and you ended up like, well.” She waved a hand at the half-naked corpses that surrounded them. “Haven’s the place, right?” At Drynne’s nod, she gave a jaunty salute and scrambled up the store face into the moonlight. “See you there, glowy!”

“You’re just going to let her join? No questions asked?” Cassandra scoffed at the retreating back of their newest recruit, clearly unimpressed with her disordered manner.

Drynne handed a scrap of fabric to Solas who accepted it with a peeved grunt before he responded. “I’ve met her kind before, the Red Jennies, that is. They helped me out of a tight spot.”

“Any ‘extracurricular activities’ you want to share with us?” Varric said, curving his fingers in air quotes.

“Nothing of the sort!” Drynne chuckled again, shaking his head. “I just know the value of having a Friend when you’re having a rough patch. They know all the best ways in and out of every major city this side of Thedas, and how to break in all the most important buildings to boot. That girl is going to become Liliana's best friend.”

Drynne thought about his last statement for a second. “Well, probably her most useful informant. The Nightingale is going to hate her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din’las... Rosa... : No hope, endure


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Hopefully, this longer chapter makes up for the wait.

_ And so he endured. Ever growing stronger, Aquila lived in what felt like two worlds: that of the Pit, where he fought and killed being after being, from elves to dwarves to humans and yet still the stray qunari. It seemed that the wealth of slaves and criminals to be executed were never-ending, and Aquila did what he had to in order to survive.  _

_ So he endured, but he also learned. It was hard not to when one was constantly fighting. He learned how to strike to kill the fastest and most painlessly-- the small body of an emaciated woman taught him that-- and he learned how to make a spectacle-- the more bombastic and entertaining the fight, the more ration that he and his Hahren received at the end of the day. It was easy to see which of his opponents would be good candidates for this kind of fight; often arrogant and lacking no creativity in their racial slurs-- Aquila never took glee in the death of his opponents, but he couldn’t help the brief feeling of satisfaction when their eyes dimmed.  _

_ Yet, Hahren was his constant companion. She seemed to be assigned to him as some sort of minder, though Aquila knew not by whom. While he grew stronger in body, Hahren made sure he grew strong in spirit. A story was always at her lips.  _

* * *

_ He was frowning over a shallow wound in his arm; it was not deep but spanned the entirety of his right forearm. It would not kill him this day, but it would most assuredly scar. Good. Another trophy to add to the others, another mark of his unwillingness to die. _

_ His opponent had been a particularly wily dwarf how spoke not a lick of common but wielded his blades with an eloquence that defied his lack of words. The dwarf had darted to and fro, weaving in and out of his guard like water-- Aquila had not though such a portly creature able to exhibit such grace. He had had to sacrifice his own barren arm as a means of deflection, resulting in both the cut he was ruminating over as well as the finishing of the fight; the dwarf’s surprise at the action had given Aquila a brief moment to redirect the dwarf’s own dagger into his belly. From there, Aquila had tried to make the end quick. _

_ “Oh, my poor eagle. What have you done?” And so Harhen appeared, baring a basket of cloth under one arm. “Come, Aquila, for I have a story to tell.” _

_ He shuffled closer, and at a small signaling of her hand, he presented her with his arm for inspection. She tutted under her breath, poking and prodding the wound to Aquila’ displeasure.  _

_ As she was wrapping a strip of cloth that she must have pilfered for this very purpose, she began. “Have I told you the story of the People and the Sloth demon?” _

_ His answer, too, at this point was routine. “No, Hahren, but I wish to learn.” And he did.  _

_ She pulled one grubby strip of linen under his weeping arm. “When the People were newly freed from their chains, Fen’Harel led them into the valley outside of Arlathan. Now you must know that the world at that time was young; the valley was little more than a clearing of fire and ash in the plain not sung into being.” _

_ “The People, though strong from their bondage were still unsuited for this land, and Fen’Harel knew that he must find them shelter or they would surely not survive.” She wrapped the wound in a criss-cross manner over the split skin, the wound itself holding closed as the cloth was woven through Hahren’ s delicate fingers.  _

_ “Eventually, they came upon a cave, and Fen’Harel, too wary of what seemed like a convenient refuge, told the People to stay behind as he entered first.  _

_ He walked through the dank tunnel lit only by the mage light he sustained in his palm, the cavern showing queer shadows in the reflection of the green mage fire. The cave opened into a cavern, and at the end, there was a great bear with antlers that curled into deadly points around the vicious teeth dripping venom out of its maw-- a sloth demon.  _

_ Aquila shuddered, remembering the one run in with a sloth demon that he had seen in his foolish wanderings of the fade when he had been younger. He had escaped the dream just in time-- and hadn’t slept for days after the encounter, fearing a repeat visit. _

_ Hahren picked up easily on his shiver. “Ah, you have seen one then? So you know how dangerous that they can be, though this demon more so than the others; for this was the first sloth demon, and all others are merely its get.  _

_ Luckily, the demon was sleeping, as sloth demons are inclined to do, and Fen’Harel was able to plan his next move. _

_ The cave was lit by great glowing mushrooms, larger than Fen’Harel had ever seen and he let the fire in his palm extinguish. The fungi were dripping a strange ooze-- could this be the reason that the demon slept so deeply? _

_ Fen’Harel crept and crept to the mushrooms on the wall hoping to grab one and poison the blade on his staff with it, but just as he was reaching out a palm to the decomposing matter, the great bear woke up.” _

_ The wrapping on his arm was finished now, and unabashedly, Aquila turned his attention fully on his elder, though he said not a word, for he had learned from their first session.  _

_ “‘Who are you, little one, to have disturbed my slumber?’ _

_ “Thinking fast, Fen’Harel replied, ‘You did not hear the Lords and Ladies of Arlathan send word of my coming? I am to be your new cook, and I have a meal of souls just waiting for you outside this very cave.’ _

_ Humming in satisfaction the great bear lumbered to its feet, not one to forsake an easy meal. ‘Do you really? Well, I shall not let it go to waste!’ _

_ ‘Wait’ Fen’Harel called, throwing himself in front of the beast. ‘I am to be your chef, am I not? I am here to reward you for your good work with a special meal!’ _

_ The sloth demon, ever willing to indulge in decadence, agreed. ‘Fine, puny one, but make it quick; I love a good meal after a good nap.’ _

_ Fen'Harel nodded, reaching into his own magic to create an orb of pure mana which he placed it atop a large mushroom cut from the wall of the cavern. ‘Here, my lord. A foretaste of the coming feast so you may see if it is to your liking.’ _

_ The great demon ate the giant mushroom in one giant gulp, and its entire body gave a shudder. ‘Fool you have poisoned me! No, you will be my feast!’ But the bear was weakened by Fen’Harel’s trick and fell to the floor, where it died by Fen’Harel’s blade. _

_ And so the People found their first sanctuary, in a cave illuminated by the very means by which its previous resident met its demise.” _

_ Hahren raised one hand in a fist, touching it first to her forehead, then to her mouth, and then to her heart-- the signal of safety from one slave to another. “Will you remember?” _

_ He mimicked her motions and added a nodding of his head-- a sign of great respect. “Ma serannas, Hahren. I will not forget.” And he did not.  _   
  


* * *

“And what would you know about women's fashion, dwarf?” Cassandra’s voice was incensed, and honestly, Drynne agreed with her. Where the hell had Varric learned so much about how a woman should dress, especially to attend a gala?

Drynne might have agreed with Cassandra, but he sure as hell was not going to move from where he had camped in the rafters of the tailor’s, the owner of which professionally ignoring the pantomime that was occurring in front of him; Drynne admired that level of stoicism. 

They had received an invitation to one Madame De Fer’s soiree while they were trying to sneak back to the rooms in the tavern they had rented for their stay. The poor apprentice who had delivered the invitation had seemed scandalized at their blood-soaked gear but admirably had not stuttered when delivering his missive. 

They had regrouped back at the tavern and spent a brief moment evaluating Drynne, presumably trying to see if he could survive polite company. His eyepatch had been lost in the fight and, covered in blood, it was concluded that he was not fit to attend breakfast in his current state; let alone a high-society party. 

That was how they had ended up here-- it was determined that Cassandra would attend the gala as a representative of the Inquisition, with Varric as her plus one. The idea was hilarious to all until Cassandra realized that she could not wear her armor to the ball, and Varric had begun using his mystifying knowledge of the female form to get her kitted up for the gala.

“Ah, Seeker; you look great! Now, just pick a necklace and we can be done.” Varric was holding up two simple gold chain necklaces in either hand and, for the life of him, Drynne couldn’t see the difference. What he could see, however, was that Varric had performed a miracle: working with the tailor, he had somehow managed to find a cut of dress that did not make Cassandra’s muscles look out of place but  _ magnificent.  _ Draped in this gown of royal purple, she didn’t look like a warrior playing dress up, but a queen; a queen who could crush you by flexing, but a queen nonetheless.

It was just at the moment that Sera came bursting in; yet more jewelry clutched in one, admittedly, grubby palm. “Oi! Tethras! Got more ‘requisitioned’ items for you!” It was that moment that Sera laid her eyes on one furiously scowling Cassandra. “ _ Oh, Maker….”  _

Cassandra’s face took a turn for the thunderous and Varric’s eyes went wide behind her back, waving his hands in what must have been a warning. Sera looked as if she were having a religious experience.

And that was Drynne’s queue to scarper. He jumped down from the rafters, heedless of Varric’s surprised “Oh Shit!” and made his way briskly out of the room. “You’re doing great everyone!” he threw over his shoulder and closed the door behind him. He chuckled; the image of Cassandra in a ball gown looking about to commit murder on a star-struck Sera while Varric valiantly, but futilely, tried to hold her back would stay with him for a long while. 

“Having fun?” Solas joined Drynne’s escape, matching his stride from where he must have been listening from under the windowsill. 

“It seems Sera is not long for this world, lethallin. I’m afraid Cassandra is going to kill our dear archer.” Drynne’s tone was grim but was betrayed by the twitching at the corners of his lips. 

“So it seems.” Solas’ tone was equally grim, and they managed to keep the charade going for another second before they both burst into loud guffaws. 

Wiping a tear from his eye, Drynne continued. “Though better Cassandra and Varric than us, right?

Solas’s face became distinctly wicked. “Oh no Herald, we have a special way that we’re getting into the gala--wouldn’t want you to feel left out!” Drynne had a bad feeling about this.

* * *

“Promise me Solas.” Drynne’s tone brokered no argument. “We will never speak of this”

Solas’ face was far too smug for comfort. “You can be assured that I will never forget.”

Drynne splashed the dirty water he was elbow deep to Solas’ disgust. The other elf jumped, shielding himself with his shiny serving tray like a shield. 

As he suffered Solas’ dry chuckling and the loud guffaws of Sera who had just entered the back kitchen to which Drynne had been exiled too after the head chef had deemed him “too ugly” for polite company, he wondered who the hell came up with this plan, and he hoped that they deeply regretted their life choices as much as he did at that moment.

Blowing a piece of half sodden hair out of his eyes, and trying futility to brush some of the bubbles of soap off his arms, he glared at the two goddamn children in front of him. “Are you quite done? Aren’t you supposed to be spying or some shite?”

Sera blew him a raspberry. Somehow she had been able to skip out on the uniforms that Drynne and Solas had been forced into, and Drynne tried not to be too jealous. They had forced him into shoes! 

“Well your lordliness, you’ll be happy to know that Madame Whatever has just caused a scene before Seeker Big-Muscles could and Chest Hair has removed the posh lady to a room where you can meet with her.”

Both Solas and Drynne had to take a second to parse Sera’s sentence. “So I don’t have to wash any more dishes?” Drynne asked, with a pitiful whine that he hoped his companions had the decency to ignore. 

Too bad they were both brats. “Wot-- you too good to do some  _ real  _ labor?” “I thought the Dalish were used to menial tasks!”

Drynne raised a hand to his aching temples, forgetting how soaked they were and groaned when he got a bit of some unmentionable foodstuff on his face. The two other elves just laughed harder at his predicament. 

“Fine! I get it. Don’t get too big for my britches, you’ve both made your point. Now, where can I find our dear host?”

* * *

Sera led him to a room lit by moonlight streaming through an open window, curtains blowing gently in the wind. Casandra was standing with crossed arms across from a woman who looked like a statue carved from the most expensive obsidian, all smooth lines hiding a jagged and powerful interior.

“And where is your Herald, my dear? I was expecting to meet him tonight.” Even her voice carried that subtle accent of culture, and Drynne had to suppress a shudder at the memories that the tone of voice unearthed. 

Before he lost his nerve, he stepped out of the alcove that Sera’s servant’s passage had led him to. He padded forward on once again bare feet, the soft leather of his servant’s uniform hiding the sound of his approach. “Ah, Madame. That would be me.”

The woman raised one perfectly manicured eyebrow while Cassandra whirled around in shock. “You? And why did you not attend my gala in person?”

Drynne gave a thin smile, little more than a grimace. “As you can see, my lady, I am not what one calls… fit for polite company.” And it was true. In the simple attire of the servants of the manor, Drynne looked little more than a common elf, let alone one supposedly blessed by a goddess; if one could ignore the missing eye and scarring, of course. “Additionally, it was deemed safer by advisors if I should attend in secret. You understand, no?”

The hostess of the gala had an approving glint in one eye. “Indeed, though you should fear little with such an impressive woman at your side.” She inclined her head to Cassandra, and a light blush appeared on the top of the warrior's cheeks. Interesting.  “You may call me Madame De Fer, First Enchanter of the Imperial Court.” 

Drynne gave a small bow, little more than a slight dip of the head. “And I am Drynne, the representative of the Inquisition, as you requested.”

“My dear, no title? Are you not the Herald of Andraste as they say?

“My lady, I am who they refer to as the Herald of Andraste, though I lay little claim to a title that I feel I have not earned.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Cassandra seemed to have taken particular affront to Drynne’s words. “He most assuredly is blessed! I have seen him close rifts with my own eyes.”

Drynne sent her a sharp look. “The Seeker is correct, though I would not claim that our organization is a hand of the chantry, merely that we are trying to do our best to restore order to the world in any way that we can.”

Madame De Fer looked on their conversation in a calculating manner, her visage going startling blank for a moment. The moment passed, however, and her expression became that of gracious smile that did not reach her eyes. “Then I feel I just  _ must  _ join, darling. Anything to help others.”

Drynne smirked. “And to help yourself in the process, am I not right? I have heard of you madame, and I know that you seek to pick up the pieces of the circles and name yourself queen of that domain, am I wrong?”

“My dear, I only--” Taken aback by his sudden assertiveness, the First Enchanter tried to retrace her steps. 

“Am I wrong?” Drynne asked again, more forcefully. He would not let her outmaneuver him.

“No.” She answered curtly, her scheme exposed.

“Well. Now that that’s settled, when will you arrive at Haven?”

“What?” The Seeker had been following their conversation, head swinging back and forth as each participant countered the other. Now, though, her scowl was firmly back in place. “You would let her join even when she just admitted to having an ulterior motive?”

“Of course, Seeker. If we didn’t let anyone who had another motive than closing the breach, we would never get any new recruits!” Drynne gave the First Enchanter a look laden with warning. “I will not abide, however, for those motives to be hidden.” 

“An admirable notion, darling.” Madame De Fer nodded to him, new respect in her eyes. 

Message received. “When will you depart, my lady?”

“Oh my dear, you must call me Vivienne! After all, we shall be working together  _ so  _ closely.” The Enchanter raised one delicate hand, looking a Drynne from beneath her eyelashes. 

Instead of giving her hand a courtly kiss as Vivienne was clearly intending, Drynne gave her a firm handshake. “Vivienne, then."  He nodded at his companion. "Come, Cassandra, we have spent enough time lingering at this farse.”

The warrior and the rogue walked in tandem out of the fantasy ball, the laughter of the First Enchanter echoing in their ears. 


End file.
